Harry Potter and the Ceaseless Shadow
by Ninjagirl2211
Summary: What happens to a Muggle in a Wizard's world? Nothing great, I can assure you. Especially in a Wizard's world on the brink of war with a newly resurrected and seriously pissed off Dark Lord. Especially in a Wizard's world where the only friend you have is a boy named Harry Potter. I guess I'm just unnaturally "lucky"...
1. NOSY NEIGHBORS

**CHAPTER ONE**

**"**_Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I go and dig a big hole in my back yard...just to keep them guessing..._**"**

**_NOSY NEIGHBORS_**

* * *

**I**t was when the cookie cutter houses first came into view that the first signs of panic really started to kick in. This was seriously not cool. I didn't sign up to live in a community filled with gossipy soccer—or I suppose I'd better learn to call it football if anyone was to understand what I was talking about—moms, and HOA freaks. Screw turning over a new leaf, I couldn't deal with this. It just wasn't me. As we turned down several streets—the perfectly identical houses almost starting to remind me eerily of something from out of _A Wrinkle in Time_—I nearly got the urge to cry, feeling the heat buildup behind my eyes in full anticipation to do so. Ah, teenage angst. But I guess it _was_ actually a legitimate issue to be concerned about.

I was leaving my beloved America behind and setting down roots in a much smaller country; the UK, to be exact. Sure, we spoke the same language, more or less, but that still didn't change the fact that I steadily continued to feel like an alien from outer space. Another thing that didn't help was that I was already depressed enough to begin with without having to abandon all my 'friends.' Don't worry, it wasn't like I was being abused, or the parental situation was anything south of the normal amount of bullshit I had to put up with. It was genetic, apparently, and probably had a lot to do with the fact that I was fifteen—like I said before. Angst is sort of written with all capital letters in the job description—not to mention angry at the world for existing.

And now this: A boring, normal house in a boring, normal neighborhood. Sure, maybe I sounded ungrateful. For instance, I'm sure several starving homeless people would _love_ to have a boring, normal house in a boring, normal neighborhood. So maybe I was ungrateful. So what? I was unhappy, and I wanted to let the world know that _very well_ by glaring at it through thickly lined, staring green eyes—or in this case…through borderline horror filled ones. I'd just seen someone measuring the length of their lawn with a yardstick… _Dear god_, I wanted to scream it to the heavens, _where the hell am I?_

"Don't look so excited," Mom sent me the usual cynical, amused look from the front passenger seat, "you might burst a blood vessel."

"Thanks," I replied with the same amount of sarcasm, "I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

"Don't worry," my step dad decided to chime in teasingly, "we'll let you pick out your own room and everything. Then you can keep the lights off and fill it with all the sorts of dark, creepy stuff you like. You don't even have to come out."

"We'll check periodically to make sure you're still alive and not starving yourself though," Mom finished with a grin.

I sent them both an evil look. "You both know that teenage suicide is on the rise, don't you? You should seriously consider your contributions to it."

"Ohh, poor _baby_," Mom turned in her seat and simpered patronizingly. "Do we need to get you someone to talk to? ..._Again_?"

My glare turned deadly, and I stared at her deliberately for a long moment in silence before grating out a firm, "_No_."

"_Okay_ then," she raised both her hands to the side in difference, "just being a concerned parent here."

"You've done a bang-up job so far haven't you?" I muttered scathingly before returning to stare broodingly out the window once more.

"Hey. No being mean to the pregnant lady," Jonah ordered, turning down another street.

"Sir, yes, sir…" I grumbled, pressing my forehead against the cool glass.

Jonah was an ex-marine turned Merc—and a damn good one at that. It wasn't surprising that he got job offers from all over the world—especially in the middle east as of late—but what I _didn't_ expect was for my mom to follow him. This was all his fault. I mean, sure, if he took the job, we'd be set for life, but if he didn't we'd still be okay. Ugh...I'm not one to turn down opportunity when I see it, but still—we were doing _okay_. I guess the whole pregnancy thing was a big deal. To tell the truth, I was still slightly nauseated by the whole aspect of it…

"Oh, and, by the way?" He said, "I lied about you being able to stay in your room all the time. You've got to make sure and look out for your mom while I'm gone."

I rolled my eyes. "Shall I fetch my spear and stand guard by her door at night?"

She snorted at that, as if the very prospect of me acting as a protector was laughable.

"No, but let's just say you and I are going to get a lot more acquainted with each other in the next few weeks, Aims." he finished ominously with the hated nickname, apparently not feeling the need to elaborate.

I was about to question him punitively about the subject when we finally pulled up into the driveway of yet _another_ identical house, and I was distracted by the welling pit of despair building up somewhere near my stomach cavity. We were here. The fact that this was irreversible was slowly being cemented into place, and I felt that if I took one step into the building I'd burst into flames like a vampire in the sun… So, with this lovely imagery in mind it was that I lingered behind by the car for a little longer than I should have, examining my surroundings with a bewildered sort of apprehension.

There was a single digit nailed up by the door, proclaiming the building as Number Five, and as I looked up the street at the tall street label, I was just able to make out the words Privet Dr. through my slightly smudged, square glasses. _Huh,_ I thought with a very unamused snort, _Number Five Privet Drive. Poet, didn't know it._ That noted, I looked around at the other houses, and realized only the yards were different, with the exception of the grass length. Speaking of which, Surry seemed to be in a bit of a dry season, and each of the perfectly manicured lawns were looking a little...well...dead. It seemed to fit the situation.

Succumbing to the inevitable, I was just about to mope into the house with the hopes of it being less swelteringly hot in there when I heard a racket coming from the house across the street.

"HARRY POTTER!"

I stared, transfixed, as a tall, gangly, black-haired boy in clothes that looked six sizes too big for him dive-bombed out a freaking _window_ to get away from someone's grabbing, beefy hands, hit the ground at a roll, and then took off running across the lawn, then down the street, and out of sight. I watched him go with slight fascination, and, wondering what he could be making such a concentrated effort to get away from, I turned my gaze back to the window to see a slightly—and when I say slightly, I use this term generously—obese, furious looking man with a twitching black mustache staring back at me with something akin to horror. I raised my hand in an unsure wave, but all I got in return were the curtains shut abruptly in my face...well, not literally in my face, but the message was still very clear.

For some reason, the whole entire occurrence brought a smirk to my face, and the former doom and gloom I was feeling disappeared almost instantly. This caused me to become suspicious of myself because when I was in this much of a bad mood there was usually nothing that could bring me out of it unless...but no...it couldn't be that this place had actually become _interesting_, could it? _Well_, I could only think to myself in astonishment, _that certainly didn't take long_. It almost made me disappointed in myself. If my legendary black aura temper tantrums began to become so fickle, I'd start losing my hard earned reputation for being my mom's little hardheaded brat. On the bright side—my grimdark smirk stretched wider at the thought—I had a grudging feeling that I might start to like it here...and, the first item on my to-do list?

Investigate this Mr. Potter.

This task, however, proved to be quite difficult, seeing as he was just about as elusive as a rainbow farting unicorn. I had absolutely nothing better to do with my time, so I'd taken to staring out the window behind my computer desk whilst writing songs of my darkest miseries to all my adoring fans on the internet. It was what I liked to call my 'Potter Spotter' vigil, going along with the whole rhyming theme this street had to it. Every time the boy seemingly escaped from the Dursley family—as I'd learned they were called—I'd strap on my shoes and discretely try to follow him to wherever it was that he went. Now, why didn't I just go up to the door and ask after him? Well, one, that was just awkward. More awkward than stalking someone? Well...let's not get into that. Two, the fat man frightened me. That is all. Well, and then there was the wife, which was a whole other batch of crazy…

Petunia Dursley was a nice woman; a little too bony, and maybe she needed to tone it down on the stepford wife routine, and maybe I was a little concerned that the blueberry pie she brought over as a welcome gift might be laced with something, and her smile was just a little bit too fake and—okay, let's face it, I lied. She was a class A slander spreader and she and my mom got off on the wrong foot almost immediately.

"It was so nice of you to...stop by." Mom poured the woman tea as we stared at each other across the round kitchen table—she taking in my black, gothy clothes and dark makeup with something like alarm, and I, giving her my best I'm-being-forced-to-be-here-so-don't-even-try-initiating-conversation expression through half lidded, bored-to-death eyes.

I was promised pie. And that was the _only_ reason I had come downstairs at all, thank you very much.

Anyway, I found the action of my mom pouring tea inherently odd. First of all, my mom was not a tea person in the slightest—which was practically unheard of in the good old UK, so, wanting to fit in, she'd tried to find a kind she liked. She still hadn't succeeded in this endeavor. So, with me being the only proud tea drinker in the house, we'd stalked up on my favorite which was a rather exotic brand of chocolate mint. And, again, since I was the only one who drank it, I'd become a bit possessive of my slightly more expensive tea. This woman was drinking said tea and I was not happy about it in the least.

So, when mom moved on to pour tea into my glass, I found this odd for another reason—mom didn't pour things for people. Sure, she cooked dinner because she liked to cook, but when it came time to eat it, her usual response when I sat down at the dinner table was a look and a question, 'Well? It's not just going to grow legs walk over there to you. Are you going to help yourself, or do you need me to feed you too?' And sure, maybe she liked to put on appearances for guests, but I knew from experience with my old room simultaneously serving as her office, she was quite the slob at heart. I couldn't talk, of course, since I was worse, but still...It was odd seeing a fellow slob acting like an Obsessive Compulsive housewife.

Petunia averted her eyes from my dark stare and her tone seemed forced even to me when she spoke, "We were so pleased when we realized you had a daughter, Mrs. Valentine. We have a son around her age. He attends Smeltings Boys' Academy, and we'd love for him to have some..." She eyed my clothes again nervously,"...variety amongst his friends."

But something about what she'd said had attracted my attention and I immediately broke my hardheaded vow of silence with, "Is your son Harry Potter?"

Petunia suddenly looked mortified and went slightly pale. "Good lord, no. That boy has been trouble ever since my sister had him dropped on our doorstep."

"So he's your nephew?" Mom joined in, following the conversation, since I'd informed her of the strange event that had taken place earlier in the day. She had that cunning look of contemplation on her face. She had a knack at picking up things from a conversation that I couldn't...but I was getting better at it.

"Unfortunately…" she sighed dramatically, "We've fed him, clothed him, taken him in out of the goodness of our hearts, but even going so far as to have him admitted at St. Brutus' Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys, there's been no change in his behavior in the slightest." She shook her head sadly. "My sister-in-law says it's got something to do with the genes…"

"Is your sister-in-law a geneticist?" I asked smartly.

Petunia blinked at me. "Why, no… But I—"

"You'll have to excuse Amy." Mom forced a smile. "She gets into these inconsolable moods… There's really nothing for it but to ignore them."

I sent her a withering look. "Hello? Sitting right here?" I waved for good measure.

Petunia went right on as if I weren't, "Oh yes, I know just what you mean. My Dudley gets them too. It must just be that age. Usually a new video game or two will cheer him right up."

Mom blinked several times at this, then chuckled darkly. "Oh, I'm sure it would cheer Amy up too...but since I'm the 'evil life ruiner,' I'm just going to let her suffer."

I _glowered_ at her.

Petunia seemed uncertain as to whether to laugh, or look scandalized. Either way, she evidently didn't think Mom's 'little joke' was funny.

And that was when the screaming started. It came from outside where Petunia's husband Vernon had stopped to talk manly man conversation with Jonah, who was washing his beloved Cadillac in the front drive. Now, it's not that I didn't like Jonah...it's just that he was a very hard person to like. Well, actually that wasn't true. He was funny as hell, intelligent, charismatic, and made friends with people rather easily, but had a tendency to rub some the wrong way with his exuberant, eccentric personality—including me. This is the man—and he was a _big_ man at that—who once dressed in Reno 911 hot pants for Halloween because he said he liked to go for the shock value. This is the man who once pulled his socks up to his knees and his gym shorts up to his chest like Urkel at one of Mom's work walk-a-thons, burst out of the donsjon covered in sweat from his run, then deliberately sprinted towards her in front of all her colleagues, vaulting over a chain link fence, flailing his arms and shouting at the top of his lungs '_HEY HUNNIE!_' And I could go on and on—it only gets worse. Honestly, I still have no idea why Mom agreed to marry him...but to each their own, I suppose.

Beyond the crazy stuff, he had a certain 'presence' and way of doing things that sort of suffocated me, not to mention he was a bit of a neat freak, and we've already established that I am an unrepentant slob. And it wasn't just me either. Jonah's personal identity was just...astronomically _huge_...and some people either didn't know what to do with it, or felt threatened by it. For me, it was a mixture of the two. For Vernon? Well, I think we could safely assume the latter.

As we would eventually learn over the course of our residence in Little Whinging, Mr. Dursley had a tendency to complain about things, and was as close-minded as you could get. Naturally, the two got into an argument about politics, and Jonah—finally fed up with the man—took the spray nozzle of his hose and switched from hosing off his car, to hosing off Mr. Dursley. He later played it off as a joke, saying Vernon needed to 'cool his head,' but the man and his wife were both fuming with dislike.

"Congratulations." I awarded them as the couple stormed off towards their dwelling. "You've just made enemies with everyone in the neighborhood."

"Why do you say that?" Jonah questioned and Mom gave me a thoughtful look

I simply pointed after Petunia Dursley's line of pursuit, heading over towards a neighbor's house, and sending a snide look over her shoulder at ours as she ducked into the copy. "She's going to tell her friends all about what's making her upset, and probably 'exaggerate' extensively about it. Come on, this is grade-school stuff, you guys. Way to make a first—" But I was interrupted in reprimanding my parents by the sudden reappearance of Harry Potter, who stopped dead at the sight of his soaking wet uncle stomping back into the house, and then took in the form of Jonah, still wielding his trusty hosepipe, then to Mom and her pregnant belly, and then, finally our eyes met for a second. I noticed they were the same color as mine, if not a touch more vibrant; I was slightly jealous. He looked back to where his uncle had just disappeared into the house, obviously putting two and two together, and I swear, I almost saw him grin.

But then there was a harsh cry of "_Boy!_" and, with a flinch, it appeared he recognized he was being summoned. The amusement fled from his face almost instantly—so much so that I almost didn't believe I'd seen it at all—and nearly quicker than I could follow, he hunched his shoulders and slunk out of sight with the kind of stealth that takes _years_ to master.

"Well…" Jonah was still eying the house Petunia had reported to and shrugged noncommittally, "that escalated quickly." Mom and I both sent him identical looks of disgust and stalked off into the house. I thought I heard him mutter a curse that sounded suspiciously like '_Women_...' under his breath.

But I was still occupied with my latest fixation and that was the mystery of Harry Potter. Was he really some trouble maker delinquent that Mrs. Dursley had made him out to be. My intuition was telling me not to trust her, but on the other hand, where had that crazy ass stealth come from? It seemed Mr. Potter was used to sneaking around in places where he shouldn't necessarily be. He also seemed to be adept at shaking off pursuers, because every time I tried to figure out where it was he was going, I always ended up getting lost and heading back home disappointed.

And so it was that I sat perched at my silent vigil, nearly nodding off as the heat of the summer seeped into the house and into my brain, making me sleepy. It was only the intervention of Inigo, hopping up on my keyboard that startled me out of my daze, and I twitched in surprise.

He blinked at me with bright green eyes, "Meow," then butted his head against mine, asking for attention.

Sighing, I caved and gave him a scratch under his chin—his favorite spot. Inigo Montoya was white with black spots—like a dairy cow—in his short, fluffy fur, and was a bit of a goofball. Named after a hero from one of my favorite childhood books—_The Princess Bride_ for those of you who didn't get the reference—Inigo played the part well. And, after receiving his payment in bellyrubs, he went to go hop on my bed, rolling onto his back in a ray of sunlight and lying there on my sheets—which he would no doubt shed all over—with his limbs lolling up in the air ridiculously. He soon started snoring. I shook my head in exasperation. He was getting a little bit odd in his old age.

Distracted by the goofy cat, I nearly missed the departure of Potter, but I just caught him out of the corner of my eye, and no sooner had I done so did I bolt out of the room, grabbing my boots as I went, and attempted to pull them on even as I hopped on one foot in my haste to hurry after the mystery boy.

Mom sent me a knowing look over her shoulder from where she was busy doing dishes. "Harry Potter, again?"

"What's it to ya?" I replied automatically, to which she rolled her teal blue eyes.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe I'd like to know if you'll be back in time to eat before Jonah finishes the job for you?" She replied in a seemingly pleasant tone, "Or, maybe I'm just concerned about your unhealthy obsession with a boy who's supposed to be enrolled in a juvenile rehabilitation center?"

I rolled my eyes in return. "Since when did something like that ever stop _you_?"

"Hey." She sent me guarded look. "Watch it."

I pointed to something behind her. "Why don't _you_ watch it? If you don't, the sink is going to overflow."

When she was distracted, I used it as my chance to escape, pulling the last laces of my boots tight, and sprinting out the door. I was just able to catch sight of him disappearing around the corner down towards Magnolia Crescent. So maybe stalking was a bit of an unhealthy hobby. I could understand the concern for that, but who was she to talk about Potter when my biological father—jailed at least twice, to my knowledge—was probably about ten times worse? Besides, I didn't even _know_ Potter. I was just curious. Was that so horrible? And besides, there was pretty much nothing half as interesting anywhere on privet drive. I was bored out of my everloving mind. So what if I had a little summer side project? What could it hurt? With my luck, Potter was probably just some anxiety freak with subtle klepto issues. Strangely, I was okay with that. Even if it was a bust, at least I'd have fun on my vain pursuit of adventure while it lasted.

Simultaneously, it served as a way to get away from Jonah, who'd taken to dragging me with him to his newly found boxing gym. That 'quality time' he said we'd be spending with each other? Yeah. I couldn't quite recall a time I'd ever been more humiliated in my entire existence. Not only could I hardly throw a punch to save my life, but my muscles were frail, weak, squeamish little things, and after one workout I wanted to go cry and nurse my sore body back to health in a safe, dark place. Yeah, I hadn't been in shape since I played briefly on a volleyball team when I was ten. That didn't work out so great. Since then, I'd grown progressively reclusive and retreated deeper and deeper into my room, blinds drawn, where no sun could penetrate my fortress of solitude. Jonah called it 'The Secret Lair of the Bat Creature.' In any case, if it came down to a choice of chasing after Potter—which, by definition, was infuriatingly frustrating—and sucumbing to Jonah's version of 'bonding'...well, it's not really much of a choice, is it?

Rounding the corner of Magnolia Crescent, I felt my heart speed up in anticipation, because I _knew_ this way led to a dead end. Potter may have known the neighborhood a hell of a lot better than I did, but there comes a certain level of experience gained when constantly stalking an experienced person—my gamer speak rearing its ugly head—he must've been off _his_ game that day. But, when I sprinted around yet another corner—

It was impossible. How on _earth_ could he have escaped when I _heard his footsteps right in front of me?_ Not to mention, _dead end!_ It was a freaking dead end! How do you wiggle your way out of that? The blonde bimbos in horror movies didn't! Although, in his defense, Potter was not a blonde, nor did I believe that he was a bimbo, per say, but I'd been wrong about things of that nature before... In utter exasperation at my latest defeat I threw my hands up into the air and let out a roar of frustration, actually stomping my boot into ground like those silly Saturday morning cartoon characters. And, feeling this outlet for my anger wasn't quite enough, I spied a nearby rock. Summoning all of my pent up frustration, all my grief at having to leave my friends, my country, my grandma, my cousins, my aunt, my uncle, all the shame and indignation of having been reduced to stalking some poor boy in order to get my kicks, and oh, _god_, all the fucking, teenage _angst_, I jerked my leg back and _kicked_ the damn thing...straight through somebody's window…

"...Oh _fuck_."

I cursed, staring blankly at the shattered glass for a split second, half in horror, and half in mortification, but then the shrieking started, and that's about the point I turned tail and dived into one of the bushes lining the alleyway between the two houses...only it seemed that it was already occupied, and in my haste to hide, I'd ended up landing right on top of the person in a tangled mass of body parts. Now there were two of us cursing. In the end though, there was the sound of a door slamming, footsteps, and we both fell silent and still, ceasing the struggle to separate ourselves in the face of potential discovery. I hardly dared to breathe as a furious homeowner shouted bloodchilling threats and obscenities into the quickly fading daylight, and I cringed as the heavy footsteps drew nearer, screwing my eyes shut tight in anticipation of being discovered...but then they turned around, cursing as they did so and stomped back into the house.

It was then that the boy shifted beneath me, and, jumping to my feet, I muttered, even more embarrassed than I had been to accidentally break the window, "Oh, god, I am _so_ sorry about—" but then I recognized the messy haired boy dusting off his baggy clothes disgruntledly in the dimming light, and then blurted out, "Harry Potter?"

He eyed me irritably from over his glasses—which had slipped halfway down his nose—then pushed passed me and practically stomped off down the street. When I sauntered off in the same direction though, he whirled around and exploded, "Why d'you keep _following_ me?!"

"Umm…" I felt guilty, but I also felt the need to point out the obvious. "You _do_ realize I live directly across the street from you, right? I assume _that's_ where you were headed?"

He was smarter than that though. "_All week_? It isn't the first time. Why are you following me? Who sent you?"

"Who _sent_ me?" Well now, _that_ was new. "What do you mean, '_who sent me_?' I just wanted to say '_hi_!'"

His face suddenly went through several different emotions at once—a slight pinking of his cheeks, embarrassment, shaking of the head, bemusement, confusion, uh, what the— "Er...who exactly _are_ you again?"

Feeling a bit embarrassed myself—as I should… Bad, stalker, Amy, _bad_—I duly remembered my manners, stuck out my hand, and intoned, "Amy Spencer, from Number Five. I just moved here from the U.S. Nice to meet you."

With visible hesitation, he took my hand and wobbled it a little. "Er...yeah. I assume you already know who I am…"

"Yeah," I confirmed. Duh. Stalker. Get with the program. "I hear your uncle yelling your name a lot. You must really piss him off."

He shrugged slightly. "Yeah. Mainly everything about me pisses him off, but so do a lot of other things as well. I'm just especially unlucky in that respect I s'pose..." he trailed off uncertainly, as if wondering if he had said too much. But then he seemed to notice the time and cursed, "Blast it, I'm late for Dudley!" and began walking very quickly in the direction of home.

Speeding up to match his pace I questioned, "Late for..._what?_ Isn't Dudley that moran you live with? You're cousins, right?"

He sent me a look. "You're very…" he paused for a moment, as if searching for a politer term, "..._direct_, aren't you? Is that an American thing?"

"Um...not exactly…" It was more of an Amy thing. "Sorry…?"

"Don't be," he replied curtly, "It's the truth. Why bother sugarcoating it?"

I grinned. Finally, someone with sense! "Exactly! You've got the picture!" When he didn't respond, I went on with a _bit_ more tact, "So, um...I've been wondering...do you _really_ go to a criminal institution for lost causes?" I said a _bit_. Not a _lot_.

"Yup." he answered automatically, not really paying attention to the conversation, "That's the one."

"...Why?"

He glanced at me with a strange expression as if no one had ever asked him this question before. "...I do bad things."

I furrowed my brow. "Like _what?_" followed up by a skeptical, "No offense—don't mean to walk all over your fragile, juvenile delinquent ego, or anything—but you honestly don't seem like a bad person to me."

He shrugged again, the corner of his lip pulling up into an ironic sort of half-smile. "You don't have to be a bad person to do bad things, you know..."

I let out a huff of annoyance at the evasive answer, but I knew how to pick my battles, and I knew that this one would be a loser. Instead, I just struggled to match his pace, almost jogging to keep up, and asked him, "Well, why are you in such a hurry anyway?"

He rolled his eyes. "If I get home later than Dudley, a tongue lashing will be the least of my worries..."

"What, do they beat you, or something?" I wouldn't put it past them.

"Not usually, no..." He sent me a punitive look. "You ask too many questions."

"I'm a naturally curious person," I defended.

He shook his head, and I think I caught the brief undertones of an idiom muttered under his breath having to do with a dead cat.

"So…here's the thing," I finally breached the topic, "I know this is going to sound weird, but bear with me, okay?"

He sent me another look and replied dryly, "Believe me...I can handle 'weird.'"

"I sort of have this...sixth sense, when it comes to people," I explained. "Don't ask me how it works, or where it comes from, but somehow...I can just _tell_ if someone is a weirdo. Right off the bat, soon as I look at 'em." I continued with, "Sort of like a metal detector—like those things they use at the airports? The proddy, pokey thingies that make funny noises? Yeah, it's like I've got one built into my head." I cleared my throat awkwardly, at his arched brow. "Um, anyway, it sort of went off like _crazy_ when I first saw you… Uh, not that that's a bad thing!" I waved my hands frantically, as if to ward off any offense to my essentially calling him a weirdo. "Like you said about not having to be a bad person to do bad things, you know? You don't have to be a bad person to be a weirdo. And I like weirdoes anyway, so, basically—whatI'msayingisthatIllikeyou." I said all this very quickly without pausing for breath.

He stopped walking, and gave me a very long look as if deciding whether or not to be offended, or to start laughing. In the end, he decided upon the latter, and shook his head. "_You're_ the 'weirdo.' You've been following me around, all this time, just to tell me _that_?"

I crossed my arms petulantly. "Yes! And so what? You should be honored!"

He laughed again.

"I'm serious!" I insisted. "I don't follow every shmuck that shows up on my radar, and I generally do not _like_ human beings as a species. Come on, even I can recognize an opportunity when I see it!"

He arched another dark brow at me, amused. "And just what sort of opportunity are you proposing, Amy from Number Five?"

Smirking, I stuck out my hand in proposition. "What if I told you I could make your little Dursley problem all just...go away?"

The amusement fled from his face in an instant, and turned to careful consideration. After a moment, with his eyes rapt on mine, he told me, "...I'm listening."

And so it was, five minutes later, I had succeeded in convincing Petunia Dursley that I had gotten lost, and Harry had kindly helped me find my way back home. Mr. Dursley, however, was not so convinced, though he seemed agreeable enough when I politely requested that Harry stay at my house for dinner. I may have been a brash and rude person at the core, but I was also a very convincing actress when it came to being around other people's guardians. Parents loved me.

It helped that both the husband and wife of Number Four frankly appeared relieved that they did not have to share the same supper table with their nephew, and evidently, it seemed that though Petunia had taken a liking to spreading slander about my mother—which pissed me off quite a bit, I found, when I was not doing so myself—she had clearly come to the conclusion that I was a wretchedly deprived child who did not get nearly enough video games and obviously pitied me to have been born into the other woman's household. Or so Harry said.

And so, to my surprise—and slight disgust—she took a motherly tone with me and conceded, "Have him for as long as you like, Dear. And...don't ever be afraid to ask for help. We can call people for you."

Harry seemed to be having trouble trying not to burst out in a fit of laughter.

"Uhh...sure Mrs. Dursley." I had to make a concentrated effort to sound polite and not shake my head in bemusement at her. "I'll get right to that." And as we slipped away across the street, I sent a look at the boy and growled, "Not a word. I don't want to hear you speak."

He sent me an innocent glance in return. "I wasn't going to. Though I have to say, I can't believe you actually pulled that off."

I rolled my eyes. "Ah, ye of little faith… Don't underestimate my many talents. We're not out of the woods just yet..."

When mom opened the door, she looked beyond furious. Her long, dirty blonde hair was out of place, and her facial expression was irate. Her nails also looked like she had been biting them.

But when she spoke she sounded completely composed. Serious. Deadly. "Do you have _any_ idea how late you are? I sent Jonah out looking for you. He's probably—" but by then she had noticed the tall, lanky boy behind me and raised a brow.

With that, I fed her the same lie I gave to Petunia Dursley. "I got lost. Harry helped me get back. Would you mind if he stayed for dinner?"

She looked about as convinced of the lie as Mr. Dursley had, but refrained from calling me out on it, casting a curious look over at the rumored delinquent, then shrugged. "I suppose it couldn't hurt to have a few less leftovers than usual... Come on in." I didn't know her motives, but she seemed to be testing a theory...

Immediately, it was as if a switch had gone off in Harry's brain (like mine had at the Dursley's) and he was suddenly in polite mode. "Thank you very much for having me, Mrs. Valentine—"

She waved him off as we followed her into the kitchen. "Just call me Ms. Josey."

Her full name was Joscelene; she hated it because you could never find it on those personalized friendship bracelet things at the mall so I made her one out of alphabet letters when I was a kid. It was one of the rare times I saw her smile. A real smile—not a sarcastic one, or a cynical one like usual. Ironically, it was probably what caused my own name to have deliberately been chosen for its ordinariness, and I hated it just about as much as she hated her uncommon one for exactly the opposite reason. Funny how things work out like that, eh?

As soon as we entered the kitchen, Mom strode over to the refrigerator, extracted the jug of milk, removed the cap, and then took a long swig of it right in front of us. My jaw dropped and I shook my head, mystified. And I thought _I_ was the bigger slob.

Scandalized, I exclaimed, "_Mom!_" I glanced at Harry with embarrassment for a split second to garner if he was as disgusted as I was. He actually looked like he was about to break out into grin. Still. "Seriously? Not. Cool."

She put down the milk jug and eyed me as if I were jamming her style. "Seriously? I already licked everything while making the chili, so you're going to get my germs anyway. It's not going to kill you."

Again, my jaw dropped. It was at this statement that Jonah walked through the front door, and exclaimed, "Mmm, Hunnie germs! Can't wait," then he stopped and looked at me, "Where the hell have _you_ been? Oh," and took in the sight of Harry, "'Potter Stalker' on patrol again?"

"It's _not_ stalking!" I retorted with distress, though part of me wasn't too confident in the defense, as I myself was the one who had coined the phrase 'Potter Stalker' in the first place. I turned to Harry hurriedly to reinforce my denial, "It's _not_!"

He looked like he was about to laugh again, but blissfully allowed, "Right. I'll just take your word for it, then."

Mom looked at all three of us and then pointed to the crockpot on the countertop. "Well? Do you need an invitation, or are you just going to stand there all night?"

And with that, plates and bowls were doled out, and food was fetched in a buffet line protocol—the usual. Mom never really set the table, and in this case, we sort of had to shove business papers with coffee rings on them and other work stuff out of the way since Jonah and Mom were both using the kitchen as an improvised cluttered office while the real thing was still being unpacked. It was nothing unusual for me, but Jonah glared at the mess with that neat freak look in his eye that threatened to explode into a flurry of violent cleaning. I knew to duck out of the way when that happened, but he thankfully appeared to remain just on the verge, and focused on his chili.

Despite Mom's claim of having slobbered all over the tasting spoon, it was really quite good. I piled up grated cheese, crushed crackers, and sour cream on mine, and stirred it all up into a spicy mass of my own creation: Chili con Queso y Crema Agria. Mmm. Along with that, there were tiny red potatoes, baked to perfection in garlic and rosemary. Mrs. Dursley could say whatever she wanted about my mother, but the truth stood that she was an _excellent_ cook, even with the slobbish disposition.

"So," Jonah pushed right ahead to the meat and potatoes of that night's conversation without hesitation, "what's the story with you and the Dursleys?"

Harry put his spoon down with an uncomfortable look on his face, and glanced at me as if to say, 'A little help here?' but he found none, so started awkwardly, "Well, er...it's a bit of a long story, Sir…" He then proceeded to explain about how his parents died in a car crash, and that the Dursleys just didn't like him very much. But it all seemed a little...I don't know, unemotional? Kind of like a rehearsed speech.

Evidently, Mom felt the same way, and when he finished, she hummed thoughtfully, "Well, if you want to know what I think…" her teal blue eyes flashed as she declared, "I'd say that you, Harry James Potter...are a _liar_."

I watched the boy lower his eyes in shame, and, feeling oddly protective, I muttered a harsh, "_Mom!_"

But she just went on, inattentive to my admonishments, "Don't think I can't tell. I have my own little liar to look after and another one on the way, so it's not hard to figure it out any more." She paused thoughtfully as she sized up the disconcerted, fidgeting boy calculatingly with her whip-sharp eyes.

"Sorry…" He started, but Mom cut him off before he could begin.

"It's not to say you don't have a good reason for it." The corner of her lip turned up into a lopsided smile. "Not all lies have to be bad ones. I think you're a good boy, Harry, with a lot of problems on your shoulders. If you can't talk about them, that's fine, but know that you're welcome here. You're probably the first friend Amy's made since we arrived in London. And Amy isn't one for making friends." She aimed a smirk at me, and added mischievously, "Not that she makes it easy."

"You're talking about me like I'm not here again..." I grumbled, narrowing my eyes at her.

Harry seemed like he didn't know what to say at first, and looked around the table at all of us, sincerity in his voice, "I...thanks. That really means a lot, actually." He sent me a look. "Though I'm not sure I'm the best person to have as a friend at the moment..."

I crossed my arms over my chest, and replied dryly, "I'll take what I can get. She's right. I'm not big on the whole 'friendship' thing. Let's not make a huge deal out of it. Just be here tomorrow around noon if you want to be, and we'll see where it goes from there. Sound like a plan?"

"Not before we go to the gym," Jonah interjected, "You _are_ getting into shape before I leave. No 'if,' 'and's,' or 'but's.'" He sent a flippant look at Harry, "You can come too."

"Er, sure. Sounds great." He seemed genuinely enthusiastic.

I sent them both horrified looks.

The next day, after being yelled at by the Irish boxing trainer, and drilled to the point of wanting to die, I gasped out, "I hate you both."

Harry, who had done much better than I expected—due to being surprisingly good at dodging, and quick as a cheetah—sent me a cheeky grin. "That's not something you should say to a _friend_, is it, Amy?"

I glowered at him. "Remember how I said I wasn't big on the whole 'friendship' thing? It's because I _hate_ all my friends...and have the intermittent desire to set all their houses on fire."

"Well, you can set my house on fire if you want," he told me with very dry humor in his voice, "Just wait until I get my things and lock all the Dursleys in their rooms first."

I couldn't help but let out a snort at the cruel imagery of the unpleasant family banging on their windows and screaming for help, playing along and suggesting, "We should come up with codenames—you can be Steve Urkel and I'll be Velma Dinkly—and a signal of some sort—like a bizarre bird call." I let out a bark of laughter, at the look on his face. "Or maybe I'll see if I can scrounge up some walkie-talkies. I think my mom just bought some baby monitors. Those should work, right?"

"...I'm going to pretend to ignore the fact the two of you are blatantly plotting arson in broad daylight." Jonah shook his head.

"Would you rather we do it in the dead of night?" Was my quick rejoinder.

"_Yes_," He emphasized, "if it means you'll get off your lazy _ass_ and start hauling it. Show me your uppercut!"

Later, as Harry showed me a play park in the neighborhood that looked slightly vandalized we both sat on the swings and I complained as he concentrated on an old daily paper he'd filched out of a trash can, "I am _never_ going to be subjected to that again."

He sent me a look over the brim of his paper. "I think you're just being dramatic."

"Easy for you to say," I shot back. "You move so fast you don't even get hit. How do you do that anyway?"

He shrugged, returning to scanning the paper for god knows what. "Years of being a human punching bag. You eventually learn to _duck_..."

I stared at him dryly. "You've had a _lovely_ childhood."

He let out a snort of laughter, even though it really wasn't funny. "You have _no_ idea."

I swung my legs back and forward absently as I reminisced vaguely, "All my bullies targeted were my emotions…" And then a dark memory surfaced, and I winced. "I once had a second grade teacher who would take my desk and sit it away from everyone else's. I can't remember why... Something to do with her not wanting everyone else to catch my mental problems, like they were contagious..." I stared at a cloud that looked like a butterfly. "I _do_ remember working super-_duper_ hard on an essay once though, and when I got up to present it, I hardly said one word before she told me to sit back down and deliberately instructed everyone to _laugh_ at me. She also took my things and put them in a box that she told me I could have back at the end of the year, but instead, she had them all destroyed and gave me a _nasty_ smile when I asked for them back… Of course, I was too dimwitted back then," I stopped, then corrected myself, "or maybe I was too _afraid_ to ask anyone for help..." I paused thoughtfully, "In my opinion, I don't think people like that should be let _near_ six-year-olds, much less be expected to _teach_ them things… And that's just the adults. Kids can be much, _much_ crueler than that..." I furrowed my brow in thought. "Makes you wonder if it's their parents that make them that way, or if we're all just cruel by nature…"

In his defense, there wasn't much you could say to that. It was a bit depressing to think about really, and I can remember being extremely grateful for his intervention and putting down the paper he'd been obsessing over. "Er...I have a teacher like that as well, actually. Used to hate my dad back when they were in school together, and apparently that kind of thing carries down the generations…" He avoided my eyes, and added awkwardly, "And I accidentally turned my teacher's wig blue once in Primary School…"

I snorted and stared at him with a sort of glimmering glee. "How do you _accidentally_ turn someone's wig blue? Like, how does that even _happen_?"

"Dunno…" He shrugged again. "'magic,' I s'pose..." He hesitated for a second before telling me, "I accidentally set a boa constrictor on Dudley at the zoo when I was ten too, come to think of it..."

It seemed Harry had a lot of these 'accidents' and didn't have much of a sound explanation for any of them. And, even though the stories about his school, and his friends, and his evil chemistry teacher Professor Snape were extremely interesting, I had a feeling he was leaving _huge_ bits and pieces out… Mom was right, Harry _was_ a liar, but like her, I also got the feeling he was doing it for a good reason. Even still, it didn't make me any less insatiably curious as I had been about him since the moment he first popped up on my weird-o-meter. Harry Potter was a mystery within a mystery within a rather odd shaped box. But remember what I said about choosing your battles? This was one I was going to lose. I think I knew that from the start, actually. Didn't stop me from trying to pry open Pandora's Box with a crowbar though, as was my way.

Usually, if I had a question I wanted answered, I'd turn to the internet. It was a fast growing thing, the internet, you know? It's one of the main reasons I'd begged Mom for a computer the last Christmas. Then again...if I really wanted the information I could just _beat_ someone over the head with the damn thing and _make_ them tell me. But...when it came to Harry, this became a bit of a problem.

You see, Harry was one of those rare human beings on the infernal planet we call Earth that actually seemed to possess a shred of _decency_. The more I got to know him, the more I found that he was actually a genuinely _kind_ person. Therefore, beating the answers I wanted out of him just seemed inherently...well, _wrong_. And, putting aside the fact that we've already established he's almost impossible to catch and hold still long enough to beat answers out of in the _first place_, the fact still stood that I'd just feel horrible if I actually managed to _do_ _it_. Cons outweighed the pros. You want the short answer? It ain't worth it.

But still, the cursed curiosity persisted. It wasn't until a week later that the answer nearly hit me in the face like a flying brick in the form of Inigo head-butting me, and I almost slapped myself for being so stupid. I think we've already established that making and keeping friends wasn't my strong suit—Inigo was probably the only one who wasn't a total douche or internet based—but when you narrow it down the simple core facts, here's what we get: One, you usually make friends with those you admire. Two, friends are drawn together by similar qualities and/or interests, dreams for the future, etcetra, etcetra... Three, friends respect each other—well, for the most part, I suppose. Four—and this is probably the most important, and I have no idea why the _hell_ I could've forgotten it—friends _trust_ each other!

Like Inigo trusted me to fill up his food bowl every day, and to move him onto a mess removable surface whenever he prepared to hack up a hairball. How else do you expect someone to spill their deepest, darkest secrets without some foundation of trust? And, I knew that in theory, in order for trust to be present, it has to be _earned_...but _how_ to do it? Well, now..._that_ was a damn good question.

More 'research' would be required...

And so that is how I found myself to be interrogating Dudley Dursley one fine summer's day—okay, screw that. It was hot as _balls_ outside, and everyone knew it. Nobody who could help it was outdoors, and use of hosepipes had been banned by the HOA due to the full blown drought that had Surrey gripped in its flaming chokehold. Jonah was heartbroken about not being able to wash his car and had taken to going out at four A.M. in the morning to do it anyway. But apparently Mr. Dursley had spotted him at it, and sparked a full blown english 'row' every now and again. And while Mr. Dursley would holler threats to tattle and get him fined, Jonah would goad the man with intelligent retorts, and I knew better than anyone else that Jonah didn't make threats; he made promises.

From Jonah, I learned the finer points of scaring the living shit out of people. First rule of thumb? Don't make empty threats. If you're going to do something, fucking do it, don't just _say_ you're going to do it. Actions speak louder than words. Tis a solemn fact. Second, don't back down. Ever. You show a second of weakness, and they walk all over you. In other words? Just be a badass mother fucker. People don't mess with badass mother fuckers. Just look at Chuck Norris. And Jonah was like the mini-me version. He even had some formal martial arts training from his marine days, not to mention P.O.W training, and much, much more… Geez, I sound like I'm advertising G.I. Joe or something…go figure.

"They at it again?" Mom sighed, leaning over slightly to look out the window at the current neighborly spat.

"Yup," I confirmed, watching the timer on the oven like a hawk. I learned from Harry that food was Dudley's weakness. It's sorry he let it slip...well, not for me that is. Lucky I just happen to be an _excellent_ baker, and Mom was there to help out too because even though she complained about Jonah and Mr. Dursley fighting all the time, she and Petunia Dursley were in their own little war at the moment… The neighborhood bake sale was coming up. It also served as a bit of a contest between all the participants (mostly housewives), and members of the HOA would stand judge.

Mom was making Snickerdoodles—her specialty. When I was in elementary school, still trying my very best to survive second grade with Mrs. Grimm breathing down my neck like some demented hag, and meet _one_ person I could call a friend—an ally of _some_ kind at least—Mom helped me bake Snickerdoodles for my entire class as a birthday thing...though we ended up doubling the recipe too many times and ended up with over _two hundred_ cookies. I think Mom was trying to recreate that memory...or at least the results of it. I think she was looking forward to the look on Petunia's pinched, stuck-up face. They were some pretty damned good cookies, after all.

But apparently, in the U.K. they were called something else because when I asked Dudley if he wanted a 'cookie,' he just looked at me stupid for a second and said, "...Wha?" It wasn't until I held the plastic baggie up in his face that a look of realization came about him and exclaimed, "Oh! You mean biscuits. Americans have weird names for things. You're all weird over there."

"You mean us across the street, or us across the Atlantic?" I specified dryly, observing the way his slack face made him look dumber than he was. "Either way, I'm not going to argue with you. Let's walk, shall we?" I tossed him the bag of Snickerdoodles.

Even Dudley could see a bribe when it was thrown in his face. He wasn't _that_ stupid. But he took the bait with a suspicious sniff. "These aren't poisoned, are they?"

I sent him an incredulous look back over my shoulder at him. "Dudley, why in god's name would I want to poison you? I hardly _know_ you. Which is just the problem. We're neighbors! It's unacceptable for neighbors to know so little of each other, don't you agree?"

"It's just that Mum's been spying—" He cut himself off sharply, "Er...I mean…" He shook his head as if the effort it took to be subtle about his Mom's habit of straining her neck to look into her neighbors' windows was too much trouble, and simply rephrased, "Mum mentioned your mum is going to be in that girly bake sale thing..."

I arched a brow at him, as if I _didn't_ know a thing about all the horrible rumors Petunia spread about my mom. "And...you think that my Mom would try and poison half the neighborhood..._why_ again?" I paused thoughtfully, "I'm fairly sure that would involve the police, and lots, and _lots_ of money on a very expensive lawyer, so I'm not sure if it would be quite worth it. Better to go for a more subtle approach if you want to murder people, I'd think," then asked again, smirking, "Don't you agree?"

He laughed because he thought I was kidding. "Er, yeah! Like beating them with a baseball bat or something!"

"Not so sure about your idea of _subtlety_, but, uh...yeah, sure, Dud, whatever floats your boat." But I hadn't taken time out of my still _very_ busy 'Potter Stalker' schedule to discuss the finer points of murder with a boy that could barely spell his own name. Say something relatable! "So, uh, seen you around at the boxing gym. My Stepdad is making me get into shape. You?"

"Yeah. Same here," he pulled a face, shoving a Snickerdoodle into it, then talking through the crumbs, "It's a waste of time, but at least I'm learning something useful, unlike maths, and the other stupid stuff they make us do at school. You any good at the gym?"

"Not yet…" I tilted my head thoughtfully. Maybe the idiot wasn't as much of an idiot as I'd thought. "But I guess it _is_ pretty damned useful being able to defend yourself." I had a feeling Dudley didn't use it so much to _defend_ himself if seeing the reaction from most of the smaller boys we passed occasionally on the street—duck and cover—indicated anything about it.

"Specially for a girl." He looked me up and down appreciatively. "I don't know any girls who can handle themselves fight." Psh. Hardly. "You're alright. Even if you _do_ hang out with _Potter_..." He scowled at the name as if it were some sort of curse.

But it just so happened that I was waiting for the right opportunity to bring him up. "Yeah, what's up with him anyway? He's kind of a weirdo." But we've already established that I _like_ weirdoes.

"You're telling me." Dudley rolled his eyes, shoving another Snickerdoodle in his mouth. "I have to _live_ with him. You wouldn't even _believe_ all the madness we've been through 'cause of him."

I sent him a falsely sympathetic look. "I heard about the boa constrictor..."

"That's not even the _half_ of it!" He ranted, crumbs flying out of his mouth with the exertion. "His friends are even worse. They blew up our fireplace once! Sure, it's kind of funny to watch Mum and Dad go nuts on him when he does something strange, but _I_ have to put up with it too!" He said the next part slowly, enunciating each syllable for emphasis, "_He's got an owl in his bedroom_!"

I looked at him strangely. "_An_ _owl_?"

"A ruddy _owl_—these are good, by the way," he confirmed, reaching for another cookie. Good thing I brought a lot. But then he lowered his voice and conveyed, "And another time, when I got up in the middle of the night to use the toilet, I heard this _moaning_ coming from behind his door…" then he changed his voice to a high pitched, mocking tone, "_Cedric! Noo! Don't kill Cedric! Kill me instead!_ Who the bloody hell is Cedric? 'As what I'd like to know. On second thought—" he changed his mind after a moment of deliberating his tenth Snickerdoodle, "No. I really don't think I do." And, once again, he shoved it into his face.

"Hmm...interesting." I pondered to myself quietly as he went on and on. And as Dudley continued to spill his guts over Snickerdoodles—it's like they had some sort of truth serum in them—things certainly got a lot more interesting… But the more I learned, the more questions I had. There was a root to all this strangeness, _that_ I was sure of. It's just that I was even more sure Dudley knew not to bring it up; It's more like he unconsciously blocked it out or something. So all in all, the confrontation just proved to make me even more curious than I was in the beginning.

"Hey." Dudley stopped dead once the cookies ran out. "I know what you're doing."

"Really? Enlighten me, Dudley." I raised both brows at him. "What _exactly_ am I doing?"

He pointed an accusatory sausage finger at me. "The biscuits...you bribed me!"

"Well," I remarked dryly, an amused smirk dancing on my lips, "if that _was_ what I was doing, it certainly _worked_, didn't it?"

"That was a dirty trick." He sent me a dark look.

"Well, it was a delicious one at the very least." I grinned at him brightly.

"What do you want with Potter, anyway? He's a…" he cut himself off, and settled with, "...a _freak_." I wondered what he was planning on calling him in the beginning.

I took a leaf out of my old shrink's book and asked him in a very faux-sympathetic tone, "And how does that make you _feel_, Dudley? Is there a specific _reason_ you think he's a 'freak?' I'd really like to know."

Again, he gave me that dark look and...something in his voice changed, "Just keep away from him if you know what's good for you. If you keep digging into this, something _bad_ will happen to you. Mark my words."

I raised my brows at him again and questioned him innocently, "Is that a _threat_?"

He let out a frustrated, "_No_! Just…" Then his eyes took in the sight of the empty Snickerdoodle baggie clutched in his hand. "...Listen. You seem like a nice person. I'd hate to see you get hurt because of Potter's freaky mental issues."

So he was a mental case? He didn't seem cognitively impaired to me… And if he meant insane, then we were sort of in the same boat, weren't we? Been there, done that. But Dudley didn't have to know that. I shrugged. "Okay. I'll stay away from him...for today." Not like I could find him, even if I tried to. Once Harry got going, you'd have better be with him, or you'd just be running around in circles like I had been for the better part of a week before the window breaking incident where we became friends—sort of. "Mind if I hang out with you then?"

I honestly had nothing better to do, and again, no friends unless you counted Potter. 'Sides, there's a reason they say 'choose your friends wisely,' and I knew from experience that it paid to have a friend that everyone else was afraid of, which I had a feeling was right up Dudley's alley. He was built like an American football player, and once you got past the _stupid_, there was an impressively inherent 'meanness' that I would probably do well to have on my side. It's like he had B-U-L-L-Y tattooed across his forehead. And it's always good to have a bully in your pocket.

He seemed hesitant at first, but then he remembered the empty cookie bag in his hand and he said, "Er...sure. Got any more of those...what'd'you call 'em again?"

"Snickerdoodles." I repeated with a straight face.

I couldn't blame him for laughing. It was a pretty damned funny name for a cookie. Most likely part of the New England tradition of whimsical names for such things. But, funny name or not, still didn't change the fact they were nuckin' futs yummy. Mom seemed happy I'd made another 'friend' and let us take as many as we wanted for Dudley and his little gang—consisting of more big, burly boys of the names Piers, rat-faced and ugly, Denis, even more ugly, Gordon, blonde and ruddy faced, and Macolm, whose curly, dirty blonde hair leaked out from under a blue, fitted cap. I'd never been great friends with girls. Girls were usually smarter, fickle, petty, and much trickier to manipulate onto your side. And all the dramatics made me want to hurl. Seriously, if your boyfriend dumps you, just throw him the finger and say, screw 'em, I'm going to go fuck his best friend. And he can just suck on _that_.

I thought it was kind of stupid that they thought it was fun to beat up on scrawny little kids though. Didn't they care for any semblance of a challenge? I kind of just stood over to the side and watched the show while chewing on my Snickerdoodle. To be honest, it wasn't much of one.

"This is boring," I finally admitted.

"Says you," Piers sneered, "I don't see you doing any of the heavy lifting. Didn't even lift a _finger_. You sure she's in boxing with you, Dud?"

I sneered back dryly before he could answer, "Funny. I didn't really see you doing any heavy lifting either. You kind of just stood there and held the little guy's arms behind his back while Dudley wailed on him. _Dud's_ the one who should be complaining, not _you_."

"Ohhhh!" The other four drawled out exaggeratedly at the 'burn' and Piers glared at me.

He finally turned to Dudley and grated out, "Where'd you even pick this bitch up anyway? She's not even your _type_."

I couldn't help but let out a snort. "Don't worry. I'm not trying to steal your boyfriend. He's all yours pal."

And that was the extent of the relationship between Piers and I. The two of us traded barbs on the way home while the rest roared with laughter the more intense they got. They stopped us when the insults turned to our mothers though, and held us back before it came to blows. All in good fun though, all in good fun… And then they started talking about beating up on little kids again and I got bored, lagging behind the little posse that insisted on being called a _gang_. Yeah, right...if these schmucks ever saw what the bad side of Baltimore looked like they'd—using the very British term—thoroughly soil their knickers… If I ever ended up being as stupid as them, I'd kick my own ass.

Therefore, it was a much needed relief, and perhaps a very good stroke of luck that I saw Harry toiling away behind another newspaper at the now ruined swing set—the gang's doing—we'd once sat at together. It was something he obsessed over, the news. He came over every morning to watch it on our television because apparently the Dursleys didn't find it proper for a young, upstanding boy such as himself to give a mighty flying fuck about what was going on. To tell the truth, I sort of agreed with them. After all, I hardly gave a normal, earthbound fuck about it myself...but to each his own, I supposed. Gave me more chances to riddle answers out of him anyway, and besides, it gave me a reason to wake up every morning. Otherwise, I'd probably just sleep 'till noon and hole myself up in my room and listen to grunge and electronica until my eardrums popped. Therefore I was thankful for Harry's obsessive addiction to news watching. Not to mention, I learned something new every day.

Actually… all joking aside, I was truly, well..._happy_...for the first time in a long time. He would come over and motivate me to look out the window for once; it made me feel like a part of the world instead of just being the one who plugged her ears and eyes, shuttered the blinds, and pretended it didn't exist as it passed her by. Or at least Harry _treated_ me like I was part of it. There were moments when he would say something thought provoking, and I didn't feel so jaded anymore. Not a lot of people could do that.

To put it simply, the thought of him made me smile, and this stalking thing? Wasn't so much a stalking thing anymore. I wanted to know who he was—who he _really_ was. Really, it pretty much eliminated all the information in my head, and narrowed it down to one single question. Who are you? But I had a feeling that if I just up and said it to his face he'd probably just give me some bullshit answer like, '_Why, I'm Harry Potter. We've already met._' Or probably something more witty and sarcastic, knowing him. You ask a stupid question, you get a stupid answer...but it wasn't a stupid question, really.

He seemed honestly surprised to find me staring at him when he finally looked up from his day old newspaper. "Amy. Er...hello?" and when I didn't return his greeting he continued awkwardly, "Why're you staring at me like you want to eat me?"

I stifled the part of me that wanted to laugh at his joke and furrowed my brow in concentration, answering honestly for lack of anything smart to return with, "I'm trying to figure out who you are, but you're not making it easy. It's like trying to grab a fish with your bare hands...you're _slippery_."

"...Doesn't exactly inspire confidence in the 'you not wanting to eat me' theory," he responded awkwardly again, dodging the subject like a flying knife. I wasn't having it this time.

Rolling my eyes I turned on my heel stalking away from him with a very clever, "Whatever," but then stopped, turning back around and narrowing my eyes at him punitively. "I _am_ going to find out, you know. Whether _you're_ the one to tell me or not."

"And that's why you were hanging around Dudley all day, I take it." He stood up from the swing set, walking towards me, his vibrant eyes darkening in a way I didn't like. It seemed I'd caught him in a bit of a bad mood. "Couldn't be for the intellectual challenge, could it?"

"Well…" I took a step back, a hint of nervousness creeping up my spine. "once you get past the beating up little kids part and the lack of any functioning grey matter, he's really not _so_ bad."

His eyes darkened even more as he noticed 'the gang' strolling on up the street, laughing about something—probably poor little Mark Evans. I felt bad about not helping him, but it'd ruin my rep with 'the gang,' and...nah, that wasn't even an excuse. They were all a bunch of—to put it in British terms—smarmy gits. I just didn't want to be the one on the other side of the fence like our unfortunate friend Mark.

"Good then," Harry interrupted my self-deprecating thoughts with a callous tone, "You should go be 'friends' with them. It'll probably be better for you."

And that set me off. "Who are you to decide what's better for me?! You _or_ Dudley! What are you trying to scare me away from?" and when he didn't answer I exclaimed, "Sure, maybe it'd help me out being friends with the neighborhood bully. So what? I don't _want_ to be friends with them because I want to be friends with _you_! There, I said it. Are you happy now?" Again, he didn't answer, and there was a moment in which I attempted to reel in my emotions, succeeded, and then sent a disgusted glance back over my shoulder at the fading laughter of 'the gang.' I shook my head with a sigh, and reached out to grab his wrist. "Come on. Didn't I hear your Uncle squawking about how he'd lock you in the shed or something if you got home after Dudley again? I won't be able to save you this time, you know."

He didn't protest, but just let out a depressed sounding sigh as I dragged him along. "Yeah...I know. You can let go. I'm not going anywhere."

"_Good_." I sent him a look, releasing him as we followed a safe distance away from the gang. "Because if you _do_, I'm going after you, and I'm not going to be _happy_ about it, got it?"

"Yeah." A hint of bitter amusement in his voice this time. "Got it."

I glared at him. "You're really in a _wonderful_ mood tonight, aren't you?"

"Good of you to have noticed."

"Jerk," I grumbled.

"Twat," He returned.

"You know it," I agreed with a snort, and then elbowed him as I spotted just the hint of a smile, "Ha. You're not in that bad of a mood. I can still get a laugh out of you yet. Just you wait, Potter."

"We'll see about that, Spencer…" He replied dubiously as he eyed the group ahead with distaste.

We caught up when the goons were saying their goodbyes and Malcolm was saying something along the lines of: "...Squealed like a pig, didn't he?" The others laughed stupidly.

"Nice right hook, Big D," said Piers.

"Same time tomorrow?" said Dudley.

"Round at my place, my parents are out," said Gordon, and he smirked a little, "Bring that biscuit girl, and I'll see if I can't break into my dad's liquor cabinet." I'd had a feeling that one was trouble. I made a note to myself never to be alone with him. Ever.

"Maybe. I'll ask her. See you then," said Dudley.

"Bye, Dud!"

"See ya, Big D!"

Harry and I waited until they'd left before we caught up with Dudley, at which point his green eyes darkened again, and he called out, "Hey, Big D!"

Dudley turned, as if expecting either Piers or Gordon to have forgotten something, but his face soured as soon as he took in the form of Harry, and then me. Ignoring his cousin, he grumbled at me, "So _that's_ where you went off to. I thought you promised to stay away from him..."

I crossed my arms, Harry and I matching pace on either side of him. "Unless you have me sign a contract in blood, don't expect me to make good on my promises. Besides, my exact words were 'I'll stay away from him for _today_,' and in case you haven't noticed, it's not daytime anymore, Genius."

He rolled his eyes, grunting, "It's _your_ funeral..."

"So, how long have you been Big D?" Harry brought up in a conversational tone, even though I could tell he was just trying to get a rise out of him for some reason. Blowing off steam? Looking for a fight? Sometimes I just didn't get guys.

"Shut it," was Dudley's clever response, and he sped up his pace. Obviously getting a rise out of Dudley wasn't too difficult of a task.

"Yeah Harry, shut it," I mimicked him, sending the volatile boy a warning glance, "Wouldn't want to upset anyone...would we?"

He sent me a vindictive grin in return that said, '_Oh yes. Yes, that sounds like a _lovely_ idea._'

"Cool name," He continued, blatantly ignoring the friendly advice, grinning wider, and falling back into step beside his cousin, "but you'll always be Ickle Diddykins to me."

I ignored my own advice too—despite my internal self-preservation meter going off—and couldn't help but let out a snort. "Ickle _what_?"

"It's what his Mum calls him, didn't you know?" He explained, snickering, and asked an increasingly growing irate Dudley with faux-innocence in his voice, "Don't the _boys_ know about that?"

"Shut. Your. Face." Dudley grated out angrily. Interesting that his responses seemed to be turning repetitive. Strangely...it was like he was restraining himself. But the Dudley _I'd_ gotten to know wouldn't hesitate to knock Harry's lights out. This one seemed...afraid. Of a gangly—admittedly geeky looking—guy with glasses no less. Dudley was acting strange, and sending glances at me every few seconds as if trying to tell me something.

"You don't tell _her_ to shut her face." Harry pointed out Dudley's mom. "What about 'popkin' and 'Dinky Diddydums,' can I use them then?"

Dudley didn't respond, and I actually felt a little bad for him. So I went to say, "My mom used to call me names too. 'Cept they were more things like 'Little Bugg,' and 'Booger.' She's planning on calling my little brother 'Stinky' when he's born, cause you know how babies reek to high heaven, and—" They were both staring at me. "...What?"

Dudley was the first to declare the painfully obvious, "Your mum is _weird_..."

"Way to go, Jedi Master. You just read everyone's mind." I rolled my eyes.

"I think she's brilliant," Harry countered, suddenly serious.

"Well, uh...thanks Harry," I replied carefully, "I'll make sure to tell her you said so. She'll probably bake you a cake with all her slobber in it."

"My birthday's in a couple weeks," he informed me, "I'll be looking forward to it."

Dudley was staring at us both like a couple of aliens and I kindly informed him, "Inside joke. There's no actual slobber involved...at least I don't think there is...I really hope there isn't..." I trailed off uncertainly, and I don't think it made Dudley feel any better about the Snickerdoodles he'd been chowing down on all that evening.

"So, who've you been beating up tonight?" Harry—momentary distraction over—started in on Dudley again. You had to hand it to him, the kid was focused. "Another ten-year-old? I know you did Mark Evans two nights ago—"

"That's the one," I confirmed with a nod, and Dudley sent me a look of betrayal.

"He was _asking_ for it," he snarled back, and jerked his thumb at me, "and _she_ helped!"

"Oh no I did _not_!" I retorted affrontedly, but sobered as I admitted the truth, "I just watched…"

"So you just stood there while a ten-year-old was getting beat up?" Harry sent me an incredulous look.

"Well...yeah…" I shrugged uncomfortably, unhappy with myself. "I feel bad about it."

"Imagine how bad Mark feels about it right now," he challenged back.

"Probably worse." I avoided his eyes. "But, you know what they say about bullying and character building. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger…?" It was a weak excuse, and we both knew it. I _had_ no excuse. This is why you hang around people you admire...so you don't act like the people you don't.

"He _cheeked_ me," Dudley emphasized, as if it was the perfect excuse to hang someone from their underwear.

"Yeah?" Harry ripped into him again. "Did he say you look like a pig that's been taught to walk on its hind legs? 'Cause that's not cheek, Dud, that's true . . ."

I raised both my brows, _harsh_...but then again, I couldn't talk because I didn't want to set Harry off either. _Rather you than me, Dud._ He could face Harry's snarky wrath. I was honestly a little afraid of it. It just seemed to piss Dudley off.

We turned into a narrow alley that was close to the one where I broke the window and first talked to Harry, however, this one was not a dead end and served as a shortcut onto the other street. I always thought it was a little creepy and avoided using it, but since I had the two boys with me, I wasn't really too spooked. Funny how your courage can increase the more people are with you. I wondered what it would be like if all the people around you were really just as scared as you inside and nobody knew it.

Dudley, seeming to have reached the point of 'fuck it, I don't even care anymore,' sent a sidelong glance at me, then Harry after a few seconds and shot at him, "Think you're a big man, carrying that _thing_, do you?"

I stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. "Do you have any idea how many innuendos I could fabricate at this very moment? I don't even know where to start—"

"Shut up. You're the one who's digging for answers, right? You want answers?" Dudley glared at me, then back at Harry. "Answer the question, Freak."

Harry had gone quite still. "...What _thing_?"

"That—" Dudley paused, searching for words, but apparently couldn't come up with anything more articulate than, "That _thing_ you're hiding."

"Can you both _please_ stop saying '_thing_'—"

"Not as stupid as you look, are you, Dud?" Harry sent him a tightly controlled grin, intent on Dudley, not seeing me, "Then I s'pose if you were, you wouldn't be able to walk and talk at the same time…."

He pulled out a long, thin rod of wood, seemingly from out of his pocket, and Dudley glanced sideways at it. "You're not allowed." There was a hitch in his voice. "I know you're not. You'll get expelled from that Freak school of yours."

I stared at them both strangely. "Guys. What the hell."

"_Hush it_," Dudley hissed at me.

"How do you know they haven't changed the rules, Big D?" Harry was focused on his cousin, still, seemingly, trying to get a rise out of him. Apparently it was working, because Dudley was slowly but surely losing the color in his face, and his breath was hitching in his throat. He was evidently afraid of the 'stick.' What Harry was actually planning on _doing_ with it, I had _no_ idea, but I was torn between an odd urge to laugh, and ask, once again, what the _hell_ was going on.

"They haven't." Dudley tried to speak firmly, as if trying to convince himself as much, but his countenance revealed otherwise. Dudley was all but metaphorically shivering in his boots. Harry laughed softly, and in that moment...I was a little scared of him too. But then Dudley got angry and snarled, "You haven't got the guts to take me on without that thing, have you?"

"Whereas you just need four mates behind you before you can beat up a ten-year-old," Harry returned condescendingly. "You know that boxing title you keep banging on about? How old was your opponent? Seven? Eight?"

"He was _sixteen_ for your information," Dudley grated out, and even I had to admit it sounded like bologna, "and he was out cold for twenty minutes after _I'd_ finished with him and he was _twice_ as heavy as you. You just wait till I tell Dad you had that _thing_ out—"

"Running to Daddy now, are you?" Harry interrupted. He seemed to have forgotten I existed, so focused was he on tormenting Dudley. "Is his ickle boxing champ frightened of nasty Harry's wand?"

_Wand_? I mouthed, _What the_..._I don't even_...

"Not this brave at night, are you?" Dudley was grasping for straws he was so terrified.

"This _is_ night, Diddykins," Harry pointed out, "That's what we call it when it goes all dark like this."

"I mean when you're in bed!" I would've laughed were the tension not running so high.

"What d'you mean, I'm not brave in bed?" Apparently Harry was stumped too, and I really _did_ have to resist the urge to laugh this time. "What—am I supposed to be frightened of pillows or something?"

"I heard you last night," Dudley insisted, "talking in your sleep. _Moaning_."

"What d'you mean?" Harry said again quickly, going still once more.

Dudley, feeling braver at Harry's discomfort, took on the same mocking tone as when he'd done with me, "'Don't kill Cedric! Don't kill Cedric!' Who's Cedric—your boyfriend?"

But at a careful look at Harry's face, I had a feeling that, no, he wasn't Harry's boyfriend. This Cedric had probably once been Harry's _best_ friend, or something similar. And with that conclusion, I told Dudley firmly, "Stop it. Can't you see it's upsetting him? You don't insult the dead. That's just wrong, Dudley. Beat up as many ten-year-olds as you want, I've no room talk, but don't speak ill of the—"

"You're not my _Mum_. Don't tell me what to do," he sneered at me, and continued to taunt Harry, "'Dad! Help me, Dad! He's going to kill me, Dad! Boo-hoo!'"

"Shut up," Harry whispered, then repeated more forcefully, "shut up, Dudley, I'm warning you!"

"'Come and help me, Dad! Mum, come and help me! He's killed Cedric! Dad, help me! He's going to—'"

"Dudley, _stop_!" My eyes widened and I slapped him on the arm. Hadn't Harry said his parents were _dead_? I hadn't imagined even _Dudley_ was capable of going that low. "You can't just—" And then he shoved me back, sending me sprawling awkwardly onto my—to use the British term—arse. A sharp pain erupted up my ankle, and, crying out, I knew I'd sprained it—maybe a torn ligament or two. For the first time I fully comprehended how appallingly clumsy I really was. Sure, I'd gotten a glimpse of it in boxing classes, but it isn't until someone shoves you sideways, and you nearly break a bone because you can't take a simple fall right, that it _truly_ dawns on you: _I'm a grade-A klutz_.

"I _said_ don't tell me what to—_Don't you point that thing at me!_"

I watched from the ground as Harry backed Dudley into the alley wall, his 'wand' pointed directly at the other boy's heart. His eyes were flashing, and he looked positively terrifying, even if he did only have a 'stick' for a weapon...though I had reason to believe that both of them thought it would _zap_ things... Maybe they were _both_ crazy. In this neighborhood? Who knew?

"Don't touch her, and don't ever talk about that again," Harry snarled at him, "D'you understand me?"

Dudley wasn't listening, eyes focused on 'the wand.' "Point that thing somewhere else!"

"I said, _do you understand me?_"

"_Point it somewhere else!_"

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"

"GET THAT THING AWAY FROM—" He broke off with an odd, shuddering gasp.

I felt it too.

We all did.

And then the lights went out.

* * *

**(EDIT: LAST NAME 'SMITH' HAS BEEN CHANGED TO 'SPENCER' FOR ACCURACY PURPOSES)**

**So, I'm trying out a Harry Potter SI.**

**A lot of this was directly quoted from the book. I'm going to try and avoid doing this in the future since the majority of us have already read the books.**

**Let me know what you think, and I'll post the next chapter if I get some interest.**


	2. EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS A LIE

**CHAPTER TWO**

**"**_And they wonder why I've got trust issues..._**"**

**_EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS A LIE_**

* * *

No more jokes. It wasn't funny anymore. It was cold—odd for a humid summer's night in a Surrey, London suffering from the worst drought anyone could remember. It was freezing, actually, like walking outside in winter and falling asleep in the snow as it covered you up—buried you, suffocated you. I couldn't breathe. I was drowning in the cold; filling up my lungs, slowly, surely.

I couldn't even attempt to stand—what with my ankle being a mess—and so I crawled, blindly feeling my way over to the two boys. Dudley was shouting, and Harry was shooting biting insults at him—telling him essentially to be quiet and so forth. I honestly didn't care what they were fighting about anymore. I just wanted to get to where it was warm.

"Harry?" I managed to choke out. "Harry? Dudley? Where are you? Something...something is…" I couldn't stop shuddering long enough to speak clearly. "I'm s-so...c-cold…"

"Amy?" I distantly heard Harry call back. "Amy, we're over here, follow my voice—whatever you do, keep your mouth _shut_!"

I still had enough sense to do as I was told and crawled over in the direction I'd heard his voice, but my rationality was fading fast. It felt like death had reached in and filled all my organs with water from the abyssal river that ran through the underworld. It was in my veins, and over all, it felt like someone had placed a shroud of misery over the night.

I thought I heard voices laughing at me. Where from? I didn't know. There'd been plenty of people who'd laughed at me in life. Teachers, classmates at school, my so-called 'friends,' even my own family, Mom, Jonah...and then there was Amy. Poor, neurotic, awkward Amy—always the butt of the joke, always the last one to know. Even worse than the laughter was that _look_—the blank, reproachful stare that spoke words, '_Who are you? What are you doing here? For what purpose do you exist on this planet? You don't deserve it. You don't deserve anything. Love, respect, companionship; all of these things are out of your reach. We are better than you. We will _always_ be better._' In that case, why was I even alive?

"Snap out of it!" Dudley was suddenly in my face, even though I couldn't see him. "Come on! We have to get out of here!" He hauled me to my feet and took off towards the other end of the alley.

"H-harry…" I croaked, "what about Harry…?"

"Leave him," Dudley snarled back. "This is _his_ doing." Panic was obvious in his tone. I didn't really understand it. Why run? Why struggle so hard to survive when life didn't even mean anything to begin with? I just wanted to lay down quietly, someplace dark...and die. Then it would all be over. But...but at least I wanted _Harry_ to have a choice. He was a good person at heart. He deserved all the things I didn't. I wasn't even bitter about it.

Dudley stumbled a few times, trying to support my very uncooperative weight, and even ran into the fence. The dark was impenetrable, and I couldn't blame him for blundering around like an idiot; It was so intense that it pressed against your eyes like velvet. I could have almost assumed we'd gone communally blind. Worse was the shuddery, rattling sound of someone's breathing. It wasn't mine, I _knew_ it wasn't Dudley's, and if it was Harry's I'd be truly concerned for the integrity of his pulmonary system… It was getting closer.

"You _moran_, Dudley!" Apparently my unlikely savior had whacked him one while I was flirting with the idea of suicide, and to say Harry sounded pissed was a vast understatement. But when he heard the direction Dudley was lugging my unresponsive body in, I could hear genuine panic in his voice. "COME BACK, YOU'RE RUNNING RIGHT _AT_ IT!"

But it was already too late.

We ran into something tangible—and when I say tangible, I mean something slimy and scabby wrapped up in spider webs—and Dudley dropped me immediately in a heap on the alley floor with a sort of strangled yell. Again, Harry shouted warnings of keeping our mouths shut, and then several other curses and odd words, like _lumos_—there was finally light...and a part of me wished that it had stayed away, because looming over both Dudley and I was a towering black figure swathed in tattered dark robes made of shadows. Though I didn't know who—or _what_—it was, a primordial fear welled up inside my being; fear, and misery, and sadness…

Apparently Dudley felt it too, because he let out a whimper and dropped to his knees beside me, curling into a type of fetal position. It must've been worse for him somehow, because whereas I heard the laughter of everyone I'd ever known aimed at me, feeling for all the world that there was not a single being on the planet that loved me…I think Dudley must've felt the equivalent, but it was hard to imagine what such a pampered, spoiled bully could find so awful that he wanted to die. Maybe, deep down, he had doubts about himself. Maybe he saw who he really was. Yeah. That would do it.

As for me, I even thought I saw hallucinations a couple of times. I saw my best friend for example—my _first_ friend—back from when I was seven, Kara Cornfield. Having grown up in a trailer park, she was the one who taught me how to be tough, and flip my enemies the bird when they pissed me off—and when that didn't work, to get even. And then I saw her leaving, and watched as someone who made such a profound difference in my life stare at me like I was a stranger, having forgotten all about me a few years later. I watched everything play through my head like a movie. I used to love her. A part of me still did. I still had the teddy bear she gave me before she left. Pain, whenever I dug it out of the box I'd packed it in, the physical proof that she used to love me too. How could you forget something like that? I didn't know. I didn't _want_ to know.

I had a feeling the figure in front of us was where the horrible feelings were coming from. And, as I thought this, it stooped down over Dudley, gently—almost lovingly—prying his hands from his mouth. I got the feeling if we ignored Harry's warning, something horrible would happen to us. Maybe worse than death. And...no, not even Dudley deserved that… But me? What did _I_ deserve...?

It was instinct that drove me to do what I did next. Letting go of any ounce of self-preservation I possessed, I _launched_ myself at the hooded terror, propelling us both away from the whimpering boy next to me. And then it was _my_ wrists it had clenched in its slimy hands, and by then...I was close enough to see what was beneath the hood. With that, I couldn't help but let out a long, bloodcurdling scream…

It wasn't _human_.

Unfortunately, screaming like a banshee required me to open my mouth—exactly what Harry had told us, specifically, _not_ to do. And with that, the monster's mummified fingers were digging into my cheeks, keeping my lips pried apart in a perfect 'O,' similar to the torn hole in its face. To my intensified horror, it began to slowly lower its putrid mouth—if you could call it a mouth. It was more like a sucking, black hole—to my...to my lips. Oh god. I think it was trying to _kiss_ me...

If I'd been able to detach myself from the situation, I probably would've laughed at just how ludicrous the whole thing was. Tragically, I was not able to do so, seeing as how a repulsive creature with cold, chilling breath, of that I'd imagine only a dead person could have, was drawing ever nearer to playing tonsil hockey with me. I wanted to scream again, but what good would that do? And struggling honestly didn't help much either, seeing as how the creature's grip was like iron. It held me close, almost like a lover's embrace, trapping my arms on either side of me, and I clenched my eyes shut as it...and there it was.

The scabby, clammy texture of the creature's skin crushed against my lips, firmly, intently...but it wasn't like any kiss I'd ever stolen before in secluded hallways, or dark movie theatres where each moved in tandem with the other, with that sweet taste, or the swooping feeling of joy and arousal inside you… No, actually, there _was_ a swooping feeling. But it wasn't any of those things. It felt like the sensation you get when plunging straight down at a ninety degree angle on a rollercoaster, falling, and you want to scream, but you _can't_, because the tearing wind snatches the breath right out of your lungs. Overall there was the inherent perception of _wrongness_… But at the same time…

I wanted to kick, and struggle, and scream, but…but then it started to… I couldn't explain it. As the creature began to suck more violently, there was a numb feeling, trembling up from my toes, and the tips of my fingers, and it wasn't like it was sucking at something...well...physical. Not my breath, not my blood, but...no, it was something _much_ more intimate that the strange entity wanted. It wanted..._me_. It desired me more passionately, and more demandingly than I'd ever wanted anything in my life. It was like a primitive, bestial _hunger_… And then...strangely...I was not so afraid anymore.

In my fifteen years of life, I'd never experienced anything like it. Nothing had ever affected me so much as the creature's desire. I'd been wrong to assume nothing on the planet loved me. _It did_. Ever feel like there's something out there you'd do anything to possess? Torture yourself for it, humiliate yourself, put holes in your soul, blacken it until you don't even _recognize_ it anymore, give up everything—even _kill_ for it? That was me. To this creature, I was more valuable than life itself. It _loved_ me...if a horrible, warped, and revoltingly _twisted_ love it was indeed.

It almost felt like a privilege to stop struggling, to give in and hand myself over to it, but before I could even begin to do so, a horrible, piercing light erupted into the ceaseless shadow. Immediately, the thing dropped me, screwing up my ankle even more—but I couldn't feel the pain anymore—and then it fled off into the night as if the light burned it. I stared up blankly into the, once again, star strewn, velvety black sky where I'd landed on my back, feeling just the fleetingest sensations of disappointment. And that was the way I stayed, even as Harry's head appeared to block out the beautiful view of the moon, and the whispery night clouds that passed over it every now and then.

His face looked horror stricken when I wouldn't respond, even when he shook me, and then Dudley's face joined his, and they started snapping at each other again. Dudley pointing fingers, and Harry trying to explain the existence of a race of beings called 'Dementors.' They were worse than me and _my_ cousin—fighting like an old married couple. I got the odd desire to laugh hysterically, but strangely, I found the action couldn't quite find its way through the haze that must've been what was reflected on the outside of me. I felt like I was watching myself from above, and I was no longer in control of my actions. There I was, just staring straight up, blank, and unresponsive—unblinking. It was almost like those dead people you see in the movies. But...even though this normally would've concerned me, it seemed as if I just couldn't find the motivation to _care_… I felt nothing. It was almost...blissful—the numbness.

And then, somehow, Mrs. Figg—the batty cat lady from down the street—came charging into view and had a _fit_, rallying the two boys apart from where they'd just about come to blows, and then turned her attention to me, the two shamefaced males trailing behind her. She set down her clanking cat food bag, and pulled me up to a sitting position, her face lined with deep concern as she checked me over. Over her shoulder, Harry's face looked anguished, and I heard them speaking as if vaguely hearing voices through a neighbor's wall, "Do...d'you think she's going to be..."

"I don't know." Mrs. Figg answered his unfinished question, her expression tightening as she took in my own expressionless countenance, "I just don't know…"

"What the ruddy _hell_ is going—"

"_Quiet_, you useless lump!" She hissed at Dudley, "Haven't got time to explain—Don't put it _away_, idiot Boy—what if there are more of them lurking about?" She snapped at Harry as he made to put away his wand, "_Dementors!_" She exclaimed shortly, suddenly furious, "In Little Whinging! Oh, I'm going to _kill_ Mundungus Fletcher!"

"What…?" Harry said blankly, seeming to catch on to the fact that Mrs. Figg obviously knew something he didn't.

"He _left!_" Mrs. Figg threw her hands up in the air, letting go of my shoulders, subsequently allowing my torso to drop back down with a _thud_—I had no motivation left to move, "Left to see someone about a batch of cauldrons that fell off the back of a broom! I told him I'd flay him alive if he went, and now look! Dementors!" She ranted, "It's just lucky I put Mr. Tibbles on the case! But we haven't got time to stand around! Hurry, now, we've got to get you back! Oh, the trouble this is going to cause! I will _kill_ him!" She repeated with a vehemence in her hysterical tone.

Dudley was staring dumbstruck at his neighbor, and even Harry looked a little shell-shocked, "You're—you're a _witch_?"

"I'm a _Squib_," Mrs. Figg corrected him, then continued to rant, "as Mundungus knows _full well_—" And I mostly just tuned everything out from there. The voices behind the wall didn't concern me. And when they had Dudley pick me up, I just closed my eyes. I was very tired. I heard more voices, and more yelling from behind the wall, but again, it really didn't concern me. I once opened my eyes to see Mrs. Figg beating someone with her cat food bag. But then I really did fall asleep.

When I next awoke, it was to the Dursleys trying to figure out whether they should bury my body in the back yard.

"What are we to tell her mother?" Petunia shrieked. "We can't return her like this!"

"Perhaps—perhaps we should—er—dump her somewhere?" Vernon suggested. "As long as it's not _us_ she's found with. We can get rid of the fingerprints! The police won't make a connection—"

"Stop talking about her like she's _dead_!" Harry suddenly shouted. "Just make her eat some chocolate—anything sweet—and she'll be…she'll be…" He faltered, "fine... She'll be good as new..."

"Don't sound too sure of yourself, d'you, Boy?" His uncle returned viciously. "Maybe we should just turn you and her in together, hm? That oughta—"

"She saved me," Dudley spoke quietly from the corner where his mother was hugging him tightly, and when everyone in the room stared at him, he went on, "When that—that _thing_ was reaching for me… She just came out of nowhere, tackled it like a rugby player, and then...and then it…" He seemed unable to continue and looked to Harry wordlessly.

"Then it kissed her." He breathed, almost in a whisper.

"Kissed her?" Vernon's eyes were popping slightly. "_Kissed_ her?"

"That's what they call it when they suck the soul out of your mouth." He replied hollowly, not looking away from me as he spoke.

Ah. Then it made sense.

The silence was heavy enough to crush you.

And then Vernon pointed a shaky, sausage finger at me. "You mean to tell me...that girl sitting _right_ there…" He seemed reluctant to finish the sentence. "Hasn't got a _soul_?"

Harry seemed reluctant to answer, and looked more likely to be sick than to compose an intelligible explanation. He searched my eyes with his own, apparently not finding exactly what he was looking for. In the end, he just let out a strained, "...I don't know."

Thereafter, there was a bit of a ridiculous scene I'm sure I would've found fascinating had I the soul to appreciate it with in which Vernon proceeded to flip the fuck out when the house became seemingly under attack by letter bearing owls. In the next fifteen minutes, Harry was expelled from his magic school—there's the mystery I'd been investigating all summer, by the way, and I didn't even have the soul to congratulate myself on figuring it out…go figure—attempted to Jinx his uncle, and set off with me on the run before the Ministry of Magic could arrest him and destroy his wand. Then they took that back and resolved to leave his wand alone until the date of his hearing. There was even a letter that _exploded_ and Petunia nearly started crying. The Ministry of Magic seemed like a bit of a volatile place to work, but then again, that was politics, right?

All the while, Dudley—who seemed to be somewhat used to all the chaos—attempted to follow Harry's advice and shove some of my mom's snickerdoodles in my mouth. In this he succeeded, but he couldn't make me chew and swallow. I'm sure I would've been touched by the gesture had I had a soul—which apparently I was lacking. Although, from the way they'd all looked at me, I'd assumed that this was a very _bad_ thing. Really, though, I felt fine. I couldn't tell what everyone was so worried about. Actually, I was _better_ than fine. I felt nothing at all. It was _great_!

Hard to explain. Let's try a simile. It's like I was watching one of those cheesy TV soaps with mild interest in the story and its characters. I wasn't a part of it. I was just sitting back in my comfy chair and watching it all unfold before me like a couch potato. I wasn't being held accountable for anything, and I certainly didn't have to face the problems going on around me. And better, I learned I could just ignore it when I got bored with it, and go unconscious...that is until Dudley started experimenting the next day.

"She won't eat anything," He explained to Harry with a hint of panic in his voice.

"You're sure?" I think it was actually the first time I'd seen them acting civil towards each other.

"Yeah, I've tried just about…" And then, a brightness came over his eyes, and if it was a cartoon I was watching instead of a soap opera, I'm sure I would've seen a light bulb come on over his head, "I've an idea. Sweets, right? You said as long as it was sweet?"

"...Yeah, but what're you—" He didn't get to finish his question before Dudley lumbered off downstairs to the kitchen where Petunia was washing dishes obsessively. They'd told my parents I was going with them for a couple days to watch Dudley's next boxing tournament—which was actually several weeks away, but they didn't know that.

The clock on Harry's nightstand ticked away incessantly. He'd sent his pretty snowy owl away with several letters the night before, one of which, he explained to me, despite my unresponsiveness—he'd taken to talking to me anyway as if denying to himself that he was conversing with nothing more than a soulless shell—was a request to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries to examine a 'Muggle' attacked by dementors. There'd been an owl sent back that morning very politely refusing his request—as apparently St. Mungo's made a policy not to admit non-magical folk. I had a feeling they simply didn't believe him, since apparently people don't just get attacked by dementors for no reason like we did. He was more than a little upset. It almost made me feel bad. But then there was that haze between my sluggish, numbed out emotions, and the real world, and it just seemed like way too much of a hassle to try and breach it. I was fine with not doing that. Who needed the real world when I could just watch it fly by like the clouds?

Harry let me have his bed, because none of the Dursleys—this, oddly enough, excluded _Dudley_, since he'd taken up the hopeless endeavor of trying to nurse me back to health—wanted to get near the 'soulless _thing_' they were still deliberating on what to do with. But since I had 'saved' Dudley, I suppose it caused reason for pause on dumping me in a hole in the middle of a cornfield somewhere. The transformation in Dudley was practically unbelievable. Once he'd wrapped his head around the fact that Harry had used magic to save us from the dementors, he'd began making awkward gestures of 'peace' between the two of them—even going so far as to leave cups of tea outside Harry's bedroom at regular intervals. Harry seemed slightly disturbed by all this, as it seemed to go against nature itself.

Apparently Harry's room was a quarantine zone for anything magical in the Dursleys' home. His quarters were littered with spell books, and all manner of magical items, and I think I even spotted a tiny, living, dragon figurine peeking its head curiously at me from out of the drawer in his nightstand once. I imagined if I had a soul I would've been in seventh heaven, poking around here and there and what have you. Harry spent most of his time pacing and brooding in this room, apparently waiting on his owl—Hedwig, he called her—to return with letters from his various contacts, and cursing St. Mungos intermittently every time he glanced at me. Sometimes he would sit at the foot of his bed and just talk to me for hours. I learned many things about him—probably stuff I would've bent over backwards to have learned when I still had a soul.

For instance, I learned that his parents did _not_, in fact, die in a car crash. Instead, they were killed by a very powerful and dark Wizard by the name of Tom Riddle—more commonly known as Lord Voldemort or You-Know-Who. Yeah. If I had a soul, I would've laughed too. I mean, seriously? Who comes up with these _names_? This was getting ridiculous.

I also learned that in 'his world,' Harry was known as 'The-Boy-Who-Lived,' and as the _only_ known person to survive the killing curse, and defeat this so-called 'Dark Lord' in one fateful night, he was famous. Though, from what he told me, being famous for something you could barely even remember in the first place was _entirely_ overrated, first off, and second off, being famous at all had only brought him _loads_ of trouble at school. 'Hogwarts,' he called it. And the names just kept getting weirder…and weirder..._and_ weirder...

Harry talked about Hogwarts a lot, about his friends, Ron, and Hermione, and the groundskeeper, Hagrid. And remember that evil Chemistry teacher he was talking about before? Well, yeah, turns out he's a _Potions_ teacher instead. But hey, Potions, Chemistry—I guess there really isn't _that_ much of a difference if you don't think about it too hard. And believe me, I had _no_ problems there. Think of my brain at this point as a shitty radio on the static station. That's not to say I wasn't still listening though. I'm sure if I had a soul, I'd be fascinated.

Hogwarts sounded...well...magical. Harry referred to it several times as 'home.' I'm sure it would've almost made me jealous if I still had a soul; I'd never lived in one place long enough to call it home, really—never more than a few years at most, always on the move. I suppose it had its perks though…

Harry was staring after where Dudley had bolted out of the room with a strange expression on his face, and he glanced back at me. "...Now you're giving _Dudley_ ideas. What next? Think it'll snow tomorrow, Aim?" Unlikely—what, with the windows practically melting in their panes from the boiling heat outside. Oh. Wait. That was a joke. I guess I probably would've laughed if I had a soul. Harry sighed, and collapsed into his desk chair, his face set into a frown. He did that a lot. He hadn't really gotten to the heart of the matter that was bothering him in our little chats. Well..._he_ chatted. _I_ stared at the ceiling like an elaborately sized goth doll. If it weren't for the fact that I was still breathing, I could've been mistaken for one. Come to think of it, that was probably a big part of why Harry was always upset… I'm sure if I had a soul I'd try and make him feel better.

The clock kept ticking relentlessly. If I had a soul, I probably would've tried to smash the damn thing several times over by now.

It wasn't long until Dudley returned, holding his shirt out like an apron laden with copious amounts of super sweet carbonated soda. "I didn't know how much we'd need, so I just grabbed a few…"

"A few?" Harry eyed the stack of drinks as Dudley loaded them out onto his cluttered desk. "_Really_?"

Dudley ignored him and popped one open, disregarding Harry's bad mood and half demanding, half asking, "Help me?"

The messy haired boy sighed pessimistically then went about sitting me up like a dummy and tilted my head back, parting my lips in a way that...honestly reminded me a bit of what the dementor had done. "Alright. Go for it. Can't make anything worse than it already is, I s'pose…"

And with that Dudley put the rim of the soda can to my mouth and tipped the syrupy sweet, fizzy goodness down the hatch. And, as had become commonplace, I felt nothing...not at first. One second, it was blissful nothingness, and then the next—cold, horrible, pain, _oh god_, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, no, no, no, no, _nononononono_—

It took a second for me to realize that it was _me_ who was screaming, and not just one of the actors in the soap opera/real world. Screaming, choking, I had soda all over me. "STOP! STOP! GET IT AWAY! GET _AWAY_ FROM ME! AHHH! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP, STOP, STOP, _STOOOOP_!" I kicked, howled, and cried like a wild animal with a strength I hadn't known I'd possessed. It took both boys to hold me down. After a time, I stopped screaming, and once the sugary aftertaste had faded, I stopped struggling all together. The only thing left then was my raggedy breathing, a residual jerk every now and then, and the sticky feeling of spilled soda all down my chin, my chest, and on Harry's bed...and then all sensation died once more.

Dudley was the first to let go, and he stepped back with something like blank horror on his face, his mouth slack, and silent for another moment before quietly pointing out, "...Bad idea."

"Yeah…" Harry agreed just as quietly, as Petunia's footsteps could be heard thundering up the steps. "Let's not do it again…" He still held my shoulders weakly, but let my body sink back to where I was leaning propped against him more comfortably. My chest still rose and fell from the painful exertion, the air wheezing out of my lungs audibly.

That was about the point the door was flung open, and Petunia took in the sight of us, her pale, grey eyes flickering first to Dudley—standing in the middle of the room with a half empty soda can—and then to Harry and I—both of us covered in what seemed to be fifty percent of the contents that had attempted to go down my throat. Her voice was a shrill whisper. "What in _god's_ name is going on up here?"

"She—she won't eat, Mum…" Dudley actually seemed close to tears. "We were just trying to—" he broke off. "...Mummy, is Amy going to _die_?"

"No," Harry suddenly spoke up firmly, his hands curling just a bit tighter around my shoulders. "She's going to get better. She's going to be _fine_," he repeated the words from the night before last. Again, it sounded like he was trying just as hard to convince _himself_ of that fact as he was everyone else.

After a moment, Duley asked, his voice still somewhat high, "What's wrong with her? What's _really_ wrong with her?" He looked at Harry as if he held all the answers. Petunia watched the interaction between the both of them as if simultaneously touched and disturbed that they were finally getting _along_.

But Harry just shook his head. "I don't know. I really don't know." He paused for a moment, but then went on with a sudden hope in his voice, "...But I think I know someone else who might. I'll have a letter sent to him as soon as Hedwig gets back."

"Will they magic her back to normal?" Dudley persisted, "Set her right?" then added, after a pause, "Will she be able to make biscuits again?"

And to think, all that time I thought he'd liked me for my sense of humor…

Harry almost smiled. Almost. "Yeah, Big D. I sure hope so."

Petunia had had enough at that point and burst out into tears, rushing to embrace her son, "Oh, Diddy! Diddy, everything's going to be alright!" Dudley allowed his mother to hug him with practiced endurance as she simpered, "You're such a thoughtful boy—always looking out for your little friends—"

If I had a soul, I think I might've been puked at all the estrogen floating around.

"Professor Lupin's a Werewolf—but he's alright." Harry explained to me later that night as he composed the promised letter, "Even if he did get sacked for going on a rampage on the school grounds...but that's not important. He was still the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we ever had, and he was best friends with my dad, and Siri—Oh right," He looked up from his letter and told me, "Sirius is my godfather. He was framed for murder and sent to Azkaban, escaped, then tried to commit the murder he'd been convicted for in the _first_ place, failed, then went off on the run with a flying hippogriff—but he's alright too."

For some reason his words struck a chord within me and I let out an involuntary snort of amusement, surprisingly regurgitating the old childrens' rhyme my mother used to sing to me as a child, "_Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon...the little dog laughed to see such craft, and the dish ran away with the spoon…_"

I wondered if I was slowly losing my mind. For _real_ this time. Ever since Dudley's bright idea with the soda, I'd been...faltering between numb, and...well...something else…

I am the walrus, koo-koo-ka-choo...

But instead of giving me _that look_, Harry just smiled at me curiously from over his shoulder and replied, "Couldn't've said it better myself, actually."

Somehow, my face pulled into a vague, spacy smile by itself, even though I wasn't supposed to have a soul. Must've been muscle memory.

It was at that moment that Petunia arrived at Harry's half-open bedroom door and stood stiffly until he turned his attention towards her. "...Yes?"

"We're going out," she informed him.

"Sorry?" He put down his quill.

"Your Uncle, Dudley, and I, are going out," she repeated, still very stiff in her tone, but then she saw the half-finished letter from over Harry's shoulder, glanced at me, and after an awkward pause, she questioned, "You truly believe she'll recover from...that?"

Harry looked at me too, and after a long moment of thought, he replied, "I had a rough time with it when it came to dementors a couple years ago. I used to think I knew everything about them... I was wrong. This is beyond me." He looked like he had trouble admitting it. Then he said to Petunia, but looked at me, "...I'm going to find her help. She'll be back to herself if it's the last thing I do."

Again, there was a pause as Petunia seemed to deliberate over her words, but in the end, she just nodded tightly, and turned on her heal. She got two steps before she paused once again and shot over her shoulder, in an imperious tone, "See to it that you _do_. I should think Dudley will be quite put out if you don't." Her face soured. "Not to mention, I'll never hear the end of it from Mrs. Valentine..."

Harry merely replied with, "...Have a nice trip, Aunt Petunia."

Another stiff nod, "And you as well…" and then she scurried down the stairs before Harry could ask her what she meant by it. Probably an automatic response.

As we heard the car pull out of the drive, Harry shook his head. "Dudley acting decent, Aunt Petunia knowing things about magic...the world is turning upside-down, Amy," but then he added as an afterthought, returning to his letter, "At least we know Uncle Vernon is still sane…if you can call it that."

And that we did. He later came up to warn Harry not to touch any of their possessions, steal food from the frige, and that he was locking us both in his bedroom. Harry seemed completely unfazed by this. Then again, I had learned that he spent the better part of his childhood locked in the cupboard under the stairs, so this nonchalant reaction to being locked in a bedroom didn't really seem too out of character for him. I know I would've raised high and mighty hell about it in the past—but then, I had always been trying to lock people _out_. The difference, you may wonder? There isn't one really. Locking people _out_ is the same as being locked _in_, only by _choice_. Now that I thought about it with impartial feelings, it seemed kind of silly, didn't it?

When Harry finished his letter, he stared out the open window longingly, and wondered solemnly, "Why on earth isn't Hedwig back yet? It's been three days..."

Again, his words triggered something and I recited, "_If you love something, let it go, if it comes back, that's how you'll know; if it stays gone, no need dismay...it didn't love you anyway._"

He sent me a look and swung his desk chair around to face me. "Well, that sounds ominous. Are riddles all you speak now? I've a good one for you. First, think of a person who lives in disguise…" If I hadn't seen some of it for myself, I don't think I would've believed a _word_ of what came out of Harry Potter's mouth. Coming face to face with a legendary—or, not quite so legendary—sphinx, and solving its riddle? I was surprised my weird-o-meter hadn't blown its circuits when I first came across this..._extraordinary_ boy. Better yet, how was he still _alive_ after all this time? He was the most amazing person I'd ever met, hands down.

And despite everything...I was glad I had.

You had to hand it to him. For a fourteen year old boy (who'd recently been expelled, and then unexpelled, might I add, under the threat of being charged with underage magic) stuck trying to entertain a catatonic, soulless _thing_ he'd been locked in his bedroom with, he was doing a pretty good job of it. Part of me wanted to bombard him with endless questions as he tried to speak to me with optimism in his tone, detailing his many adventures, but again, that foggy barrier between me and the real world was thickening once more, and Harry was starting to get tired. He was beginning to nod off; his arms were crossed on the back of his chair and his head rested on them—his glasses slipping down his nose—when, quite suddenly, a crash could be heard from down stairs.

He bolted upright, listening to the silence, and then there were voices. The Dursleys had only been gone for an hour, give or take, so it couldn't be them. Harry immediately reached for the mysterious wand on his bedside table, the miniature Horntail figurine—as I'd learned it was called—snapping at his fingers affectionately from the drawer as he did so. He strode towards the door before stopping in front of it, as if just remembering it was locked, but flinched as the lock gave a loud click, and the door swung open, seemingly by itself…

He stood very still for a moment, before sending me a glance and promising, "I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere." Ha, ha...very funny. Make fun of the soulless girl, why don't you? Very mature.

I distinctly felt a painful pang of unease as I watched him disappear, quickly and silently down the hall. It was...strange, him not being with me. And for the first time I realized that, in my soulless state, without him, I was completely alone and vulnerable to anyone or any_thing_ that might want to hurt me. For the first time since the soda incident, my heart began to beat wildly with panic.

A minute. Two minutes. Voices. And then there were footsteps coming up the stairs, and I almost cried out with joy when I saw that Harry had made good on his promise. Following closely behind him were four adults of varying bizarre appearances. One, a youngish looking man with a couple of scars, shaggy, prematurely greying hair, and patched clothing, another, tall, black, and bald with an earring looped through one ear, and yet another, and the most strange looking yet, a stub-legged older man with one normal eye, and another electric blue one that whizzed in its socket like it had a mind of its own. But my eyes were immediately drawn to a young woman with outrageously spiky purple hair. I decided right then and there that I liked her.

"This is Amy, Professor," Harry explained to the shabby looking guy, "I—" he started, but then spotted his finished letter on the desk and snatched it up instead. "I had a letter ready to send to you and everything—might as well give it to you now. I've explained everything in here."

Ah. So this must have been Lupin, the werewolf friend Harry was talking about. What next? Fairies?

And while the other two read over his shoulder, the stump legged man limped over towards where I was propped up against Harry's pillows, and the first thing out of his gnarled looking mouth after giving me a once over was the keen observation, "Looks like she's been subjected to a dementor's kiss, poor Lass… If you were looking for a cure, Potter, I'd say it's just a little too late for—"

"No," Harry interjected firmly, causing the others to look at him as well. "You'd know it if a person hasn't got a soul, wouldn't you?" He gestured to me jerkily. "I've been sitting here with her for three days, just—just talking, and she's been reciting _nursery rhymes_ back. And you should've _seen_ the reaction when Dudley tried giving her a fizzy drink. You'd think we were forcing holy water down a Vampire's throat—"

It was then that Lupin moved to examine me closely, much closer than the stump-legged man's cursory glance over. He lit the tip of his wand without a word and moved it from side to side in front of my blank eyes as if trying to look beyond them somehow, then measured the pulse at my wrist, and his brows rose up into surprised arches. "Elevated heart rate suggests something is agitating her. Ruling out any health related problems, agitation is _not_ a characteristic of someone without a soul..." He looked over at Harry and asked, "Have you contacted St. Mungo's?"

"Yes," Harry replied frustratedly, "but they owled me back, refusing to admit her because she's a—"

"That's mad!" the woman finally spoke up. "St. Mungo's Healers can't forsake their Hippocratic oaths—the rules are that _anyone_ with a magical related illness or injury is to receive treatment—even Muggles—'specially Muggles—" Harry rummaged through his wastebasket and retrieved the crumped up notice, handing it to her wordlessly. Taking it, and skimming over it quickly, she shook her head slowly in bemusement passing the reply letter to her tall, black companion. "'S _mad_, I tell you. Have they all gone batty? It's absolutely—"

"There's a good chance they took it as a joke." the stump-legged man pointed out. "After all, with Potter's reputation—"

"What _about_ my reputation?"

"Haven't you been reading the papers, Boy?"

"There isn't the time to explain," the black man spoke up in a slow, deep, authoritative voice, looking me over himself, "Why weren't we notified about the situation sooner? This changes everything. Dumbledore will need to be informed immediately." He shook his bald head moving swiftly towards me. "No matter, the advance guard is overstaffed as it is—I'll send Elphias to Dumbledore—" He scooped me out of Harry's bed effortlessly. "—and this one with Sturgis straight to St. Mungo's—"

He was cut off when I let out a shout of protest, surprising him, and almost making him drop me onto Harry when my arm moved on its own, reached out and grabbed the boy's sleeve in a viselike grip. Somewhere in all of this, I'd vaguely comprehended that he and I were being made to part ways, and I wasn't happy about it in the slightest. To me, Harry was the only familiar person there. To me, Harry was 'lifeline,' 'protector,' 'safety,' 'warm,' 'trusted'...'_friend_.' I couldn't accept that he was leaving me with these strangers. I wanted him to stay with me—_needed_ him to. It was the first time it dawned on me how dependent on him I'd become. I was like a shadow. Surprisingly, I didn't care. Surprisingly...

It was then that the haze broke, letting way for clear, horrible, painful _emotions_ to wash over me like an ocean. I wanted to scream again, but all I could manage through the horrible storm of _feeling_ was a strangled, "_Harry_..._s-stay_..._with...Harry_..."

The stump-legged man let out a nasty curse. Practically everyone in the room looked spooked. Apparently soulless people don't _do_ that sort of thing—talking, or moving, or remembering people's names. I guess that kind of made me a freak of nature. More so than I already was, anyway. Self-preservation must've been an instinctive bodily function for me though, because I would not _stand_ for being separated from my protector. It simply wasn't going to happen. They'd have to saw my arm off before—

Harry—the only person in the room who didn't look slightly horrified—touched my hand and talked to me—just talked—in that same tone he'd used to tell me everything in, "It's okay Amy. You're going to get better, and I'll come see you soon. I promise." And just like that, my death grip on his sleeve went slack. If Harry made a promise to me, he kept it. Simple as that. And he took my shaking hand and gave it a squeeze, telling me with a sort of pained smile, "Don't be afraid."

After a moment, I squeezed back, and then let go, my arm dropping limply to hang at my side. If Harry said not to be afraid, then what was there to be afraid of? But it was easier said than done. Especially when I was handed off to another man I didn't know downstairs, subtly handsome with a square jaw, and thick blonde hair, expecting full well to fly off on a broomstick with me. But the haze was pushing relentlessly back at me, and with its return came blackness…

When I awoke again, it was to a woman in a lime-green robe poking, and prodding at me with a wand, "Wvell, it is certainly complicated, Mr. Podmore… I'm not certain exactly _wvhere_ I should begin." I picked up the hints of a light German accent in her tone and she sent the square-jawed man a punitive look. "You said she had a close shave wvith Dementors? Exactly how close wvas it?"

"Managed to get its jaw around her mouth before the patronus could fend it off." The man shuddered slightly at Harry's recount of the event. "Is she…"

"Wvithout a soul?" the woman finished his question, and paused once examining me very closely. "No. Most assuredly, she does _still_ have a soul."

..._What_?

"It is traumatized beyond belief, and adrift _outside_ ze body, but still holding on somehow," the Witch doctor went on. "But if it has held on for zis long, then I have no wvorries for it drifting off into space any time soon. My major concern is zat a chunk of it is _missink_..."

"_Missing_…?" Podmore repeated, flabbergasted.

"Most likely wvith ze dementor zat attacked her. And nobody knows wvhat they do with ze souls zey collect…" She shook her head in disgust. "In any case, getting it back is beyond my hopes. I am simply wvondering how to proceed at zis point. Right now, ze girl is _stable_, if for ze most part unresponsive...but if wve put _back_ ze soul zat is left—wvhich I can do, quickly—zat is no problem—" She paused ominously. "...It may very wvell destroy her." She went on after a moment, "...I wvill need to conduct more research on ze topic before I can proceed accordingly."

Podmore sighed after a long moment, sending me a sorry look before standing. "I'll just...let Dumbledore know then."

"See zat you do," she replied. "And be quick about it."

"Have a good evening, Helvetia…" Podmore was quick to get out of her pretty cornsilk blonde hair.

Time passed in a blur. When there was no stimulus in my environment—no soap opera to watch, or Harry to listen to—I was about as attentive to the world around me as a pebble. It seemed this mysterious Dumbledore character had had me placed in a private ward on the 'Creature-Induced Injuries' floor, and there were no roommates or visitors to speak of unless you counted beautiful Healer Derwent—or, as Podmore had referred to her, Helvetia. She was frequently in a cross mood, and complaining about Dumbledore and all the things he demanded from her that had nearly lost her her job countless times under her breath appeared to be one of her favorite hobbies.

When the haze cleared enough when she was around, all I had the strength to do was ask her, "Where's Harry…?"

"Vonce again—_safe_, and awaiting his trial," Helvetia would repeat irritably. She didn't exactly have what you could call the best bedside manner, if you catch my drift. But she was good at her job. She gave me strange tasting concoctions and I slept, most of the time—not blacking out, mind you, like before, but real, authentic _sleep_. And I wasn't starving any longer. _You_ try going three days without food. It wasn't a pleasant experience.

I wasn't sure how long had passed before Helvetia got the owl—a few days, a few hours, or maybe a few weeks? I wasn't sure. I'd long since lost sense of time. But whatever was in it made her shake with anger, "Zat _fool_, Dumbledore!" She threw down the slanted script at her feet and paced back and forth before my hospital bed, sending unsure glances at me as she did, muttering beneath her breath, "Zinks he can play god wvith innocent people's lives—I wvill not have it—_no more_, I tell you—" But just then, another owl swept through the open window and Helvetia snatched the letter from its beak like a snake striking, tore it open viciously...and then stood quite still. Her hands were shaking so much that she dropped the letter, with anger...fear? I didn't know. And then she turned her icy blue eyed gaze on me stiffly and raised her birch wand resolutely, almost in a dreamlike state. "...My apologies in advance."

Soft linen binds—like mummy wraps—sprang up from nowhere and were wrapped around my form, securing my limbs tightly to the gurney, and then—pain. If I thought Dudley giving me soda was bad, this was even worse. Multiply it by ten—no—a hundred. It felt inherently _wrong_. Every cell in my body was screaming along with my mouth, and on top of that—emotion. So many bad, ugly feelings that I didn't want to feel—regret, fear, misery, abandonment, anger, hate—I needed it to stop. But it didn't. Even after Helvetia had finished with her wand waving, it still didn't stop. Not until she'd forced another potion down my throat and I once again succumbed to darkness.

When I awoke again, an age later, it was to the buzzing sound of a fly. But the first thing I felt was the pain. It was still just as bad as it had been when I had closed my eyes, but I was now rational enough to determine it as non-physical. This realization met, the panic ebbed away, and I did _not_ begin my morning by screaming bloody murder and waking up half the first floor. Instead, tears began leaking from the corners of my eyes, though I couldn't quite pinpoint the source of them. But they seemed to be helping, so I let them go without wiping them away.

It felt strange to feel things again—to be so _clearly_ aware that it hurt. It was like listening to music on low, and then some jerk comes and turns the volume all the way up. Once the shock value of it was over, I was completely mesmerized by the sensory overload that came with staring at the ceiling. Everything was so surreal, and so focused was I on the buzzing insect on the wall, that I didn't even notice the person sitting in the visitors' chair next to me until they shifted and I turned to stare at the person bewilderedly.

Staring at me intently with pale blue eyes over the half-moon lenses of his glasses was a strange old man. If I were to place him, I think I would've put him somewhere between Disney's Merlin and Tolkien's Gandalf. And when he spoke it was in a kind, pleasant, polite tone. "Good morning, Ms. Spencer." He smiled disarmingly at me, and after a pause, he introduced himself as, "Albus Dumbledore. I must say, I'm delighted to finally make your acquaintance."

I stared at the odd man for a long time. It was perhaps a full minute before I swallowed thickly, and finally worked up the motivation—and perhaps it was _precisely_ because his presence was so unexpected—that I whispered through a hoarse voice, "...Nice to meet you," and then I slowly turned my head to return to my examining of the fly on the ceiling, tears stinging at my eyes continuously as the pain wracked me. "Now...please just go away."

* * *

******(EDIT: LAST NAME 'SMITH' HAS BEEN CHANGED TO 'SPENCER' FOR ACCURACY PURPOSES)**

**Thanks so much to Katchile94 and Chaosprimer for being the first to review! I love you guys!  
Anyone else with thoughts, please share. It'd really help me out.  
The box is, like, right there...seriously. Not that hard.**

**NEXT CHAPTER:**

**_POLITICS_****  
In which mindfuckery and manipulation are ****_slightly_**** involved.**


	3. POLITICS

**CHAPTER THREE**

**"**_Some people say if you repeat a lie often enough, it becomes the truth... As for me, I'd say it becomes...__**"**_

**_POLITICS_**

* * *

**"**Most unfortunately, I'm afraid this is one wish I cannot grant," Dumbledore replied, sounding sincerely regretful. If I'd expected him to be offended by my dismissal, I'd been very mistaken. In fact, he just sent me that same pleasant, courteous smile, showing no indication of budging from the spot.

Realizing that my defeat was imminent, I closed my eyes once, shelving the tears, and, half serious, I wondered aloud, "...Are you my fairy godmother?"

"Ah, were it that such a person existed…" He sighed wistfully. "Tragically, even those of us with magic running in our veins simply cannot solve every problem with merely a wave of our wands as is often depicted by our sadly misinformed friends Messrs Wilhelm and Jacob Grimm. They were born some time after the International Statute of Secrecy was put into place, you understand, therefore I'm sure we can both justly agree that the inconsistencies in their works are quite understandable—a _positively_ fascinating subject, truly; I'm quite interested in fairy tales myself, you see." He smiled dolefully. "Yet, indeed, it brings us likewise to the matter that prompted my untimely visit, Ms. Spencer… I believe we have in common with each other a certain friend, yes?"

I stared at him for a good long minute—my brain still not at its top notch speed—trying to catch up with all the information he was piling on me. I knew from experience, dealing with my batty grandmother twenty-four/seven, you had to be quite skilled at separating the relevant from the _ir_relevant in order to stomach a conversation with her. No...actually, that's the wrong wording. I absolutely _loved_ talking with my grandmother, batty or not. Another reason I wished I had international phone service. But in any case, dealing with the challenge of conversing with a batty old lady was one thing. But with this...Dumbledore...I had a strong feeling that he wasn't as senile as his vague, spacy smiles made him out to be…

This noted, I went on cautiously, throwing out my main concern experimentally, just to see what would happen, "...Where is he?"

Again, Dumbledore smiled, and began, "Harry is quite safe, I assure you—"

"Yes, I've been informed of this several times now," I interrupted him calculatingly in a muted tone, my social intuition shaking its head and slapping its cheeks to wake up from the long snooze it had taken, up and rarin to go, "Though I believe you've misinterpreted my question, Sir. You see, I never asked if he was _safe_…" My eyes narrowed, watching his face for any flicker of emotion. "I may not know half as much as I'd _like_ to about Harry Potter, but from what I _do_ know, I have a strong feeling that the kid can take care of himself...though in my personal opinion, half of it appears to be due to an _immense_ propensity to _bullshit_ his way through practically _any_ life-threatening situation…"

Dumbledore kept his pokerface quite skillfully. "Perhaps it's luck."

"Or maybe it's _God_..." I rebutted. And from the lengthy silence that ensued, I believed we _both_ knew the chances of how likely it would be that _that_ scenario checked out. I'd also deduced—even before I'd asked the initial question—that I was _not_ going to receive the answer I wanted. After a moment of watching him, and finding no chink in the armor, I admitted, "You remind me of my grandfather, Mr. Dumbledore."

"Is that so?" He smiled. "I feel flattered."

"He's dead," I duly informed him.

"Ah…" Did I detect the hint of a wince? "How very unfortunate. I'd have quite liked to have met one such as myself. It grieves me to admit that I've never truly encountered my match on an intellectual level. I do believe it would be quite a humbling experience. One can never be too humble, as I often say."

Involuntarily, my lips curved into a half amused, half challenging smirk, and I replied, "...Humble indeed."

Touché, Mr. Dumbledore, touché…

"Though, now I must admit, you've piqued my curiosity." The old man crossed his legs leisurely, and laced his hands upon his lap as if awaiting for a long story. "What was he like?"

"Grandpa James?" I questioned innocently, smirking inwardly, "Well...I'd tell you, Mr. Dumbledore, but I don't think you'd believe me..."

He steepled his fingers pensively, "...Try me."

After a moment longer of suspense—I always loved to watch the reactions—I told him casually, "Grandpa James used to be a spy for the United States Central Intelligence Agency. Sort of like England's James Bond, though I suspect our James was a bit quieter about it. Less explosions, not as many gunfights...though he wasn't as quiet about his _affairs_ as he might've been." And, funny enough, this time I wasn't lying. "Though I have a feeling that last bit was on purpose…" I sent him a look. "Not to say this is the aspect of him that I associate with you, of course, Mr. Dumbledore."

"Of course not," he agreed amiably. Guy knew how to roll with the punches, I'd give him that much. "In my long accrued experience, I've come to understand human beings can be quite as complex as the millions of star systems circling light years over our heads."

A nicely placed euphemism for '_Ah. I see your grandfather was quite the manslut. Why are you comparing him to my excellence?_' And yes, that would be true. And yes, I could see how one could be confused by the comparison.

"Despite his many peculiarities and shortcomings, he was also brilliant," I explained, studying the old man carefully, "a researcher of genealogy was one among several of his many pursuits; he traced our family line all the way to Princess Diana of Whales." I paused. "Upon my birth, a steady fund for my future university studies was created. On my tenth birthday, he bought me a fully functioning telescope and instructed me to map out a visually correct star chart for my 'assignment.' On the next occasion, it was volumes upon volumes of classic literature which I was expected to finish by his next visit, after which I was quizzed extensively upon each and every one of them in minute detail."

He studied me in return. "It would seem that much has been expected from you from a very young age."

I arched a knowing brow at him. "Would you expect anything _less_ from your own grandchildren, Mr. Dumbledore?"

"...You have quite a way with drilling in a point, Ms. Spencer." His eyes sparkled with amusement, and was that a grudging amount of respect I spied? "Perhaps, in another life, your grandfather and I would have gotten on swimmingly. Speaking from the home of a similar mind, if I may be so bold to speak, I believe he would be quite proud to have a grandchild such as yourself." He paused. "Not many have gone up against the dementor's kiss and retained their soul. Forgive me, it would be more accurate to say that _no one_, has accomplished this in living history." He beamed. "Furthermore, you clearly still retain your sanity and rationality. This is happy news indeed."

"And wvith no thanks at all to _you_." Healer Derwent sauntered into the room, _glaring_ at Dumbledore, "I see you have neglected to tell the girl the whole story… Zat _you_ could not give two _farts_ about whvether or not _Ms. Spencer_ retained her sanity or not! It could have _destroyed_ her! And _still_, you had me perform ze procedure anyway—"

"Calm yourself, Helvetia," Dumbledore spoke evenly.

"My _vow_, Albus!" She seemed crazed, tugging on the ends of her silvery blonde hair, "I have broken my _vow_—do you have any idea wvhat zis _means_?" She recited it as if for the millionth time, "_If I keep zis oath faithfully, may I enjoy my life and practice my art, respected by all humanity and in all times; but if I swerve from it or violate it, may ze_ reverse_ be my life_."

"And yet, here you stand." He motioned towards her shapely form with one long, knobby fingered hand, then towards me. "And the patient remains, as of yet, unharmed."

Helvetia paused, as if to speak, but was unable to. She seemed to be at a loss—unsure of whether or not to continue raving at the man, or take in the situation before her. Honestly, I didn't hate the woman, despite her prickly disposition.

Instead, I looked to Dumbledore and narrowed my eyes. "...So you're the one who had me 'reinsouled,' are you?"

"Yes," he replied, completely unrepentant. "No need to thank me. Anyone would do the same, given they had the means to. And, it just so happened that I did."

"And what means are those...exactly?" I stared at him calculatingly, holding back the tidal wave of fury as best I could.

"Over the years, I've acquired a great many 'friends in high places' you could call them. 'Pulling strings' has always been a bit of a necessity in my line of work. It took a great many of them to get you here, Ms. Spencer."

"You sound rather proud of yourself," I remarked dryly.

"Do I?" he mused, "I can assure you, it was quite on accident."

Guy's got jokes…

And then came the fateful question—the one that toppled down the entire jenga tower, "What do you _want_, Mr. Dumbledore?"

"Ah yes," he spoke in the manner of someone who'd been found out, a bit shamefully, "it seems that there is always something one man wants from another, does it not? Unfortunately, I am not immune from this aspect of our nature, as I regret to inform you that the situation is quite dire, Ms. Spencer. Things are not looking up for our friend Mr. Potter, I'm sorry to say..."

"Where. _Is_. He?" I grated out, my temper breaking through my restraint and rearing its ugly head. I switched my gaze from each of them—Dumbledore—Healer Derwent—and my voice raised from deadly soft to frightfully loud, increasing as such with each syllable, "And if either one of you says '_safe_' one-more-_fucking_-time, I'm going homicidal—and that's a _promise_!"

"Well then," Dumbledore smiled—I was beginning to think the man was uninsultable—and continued, "I'd hate to make you break your promise, as I did with Healer Derwent, therefore, I intend to make _you_ a promise as well…"

I stared at him darkly, as Helvetia sent him a sharp look. "...I'm _waiting_."

"If you cooperate with my little request, Ms. Spencer, I will personally see to it that you and Harry _will_ see each other again. And all of this will be like a forgotten nightmare—"

"No," I told him flatly. This seemed to surprise him, finally, and I told him directly, "Despite what your opinion may be of 'Muggles,' or _Americans_ for that matter, I'm just going to lay it flat out on the table and admit that my brain is not _entirely_ made out of cheese-fries... You want something from me. That much is certain. If we're going to be negotiating terms here, I will be the one to set them for my side in all this. No exceptions. So, let me first tell you what _I_ want, and then you can make whatever demands you like of me. Understood?"

He raised both silver brows appreciatively, "Quite clearly."

After a drawn out pause, in which I glared at him, daring him to interrupt me, I spoke quietly, "See, now, what you said about 'nightmares'... I've been living in one for...who knows how many days now? But unlike most people, I've learned that I don't like to shut my eyes and forget that things _hurt_. Makes for a rather rude awakening—much like having a mangled _soul_ unceremoniously _shoved_ back inside of you." I shot at him bitterly. "Which, by the way, I did _not_ appreciate. _At all_. Do you have any idea what it's like to be like this? A goddamn _chunk_ of my soul missing?" My voice raised to a screechy pitch. "I sound like me, but I don't _feel_ like me. Hell, I'd rather it be like before and not have to feel anything at all! Life was so much _easier_!" Tears threatened again, and he looked like he was about to apologize in that same, polite, passively mocking tone of his, but I went on before he could do so. "But you know what? I've _learned_ something about all this…"

"I imagine it would be an enlightening experience—being without a soul. No one has ever recovered to tell the tale."

"Enlightening? Well, I'm not sure what it was, but I know one thing for certain," I replied, then said with conviction, "Being lost like that? Not having to be a part of the world? It was wonderful. In a way, it's what I've always desired most, secretly in my heart. And I hate you for taking that away from me, don't get me wrong, and I mean that in the most respectful way possible. Yet at the same time…" I shook my head, trying to find the best way to explain. "I never want to be that stupid, defenseless girl ever again. Blissful, unknowing, unfeeling—it's wonderful—but knowing what I know now, I can't afford it." I sized him up—still completely unfazed by my declaration of loathing—and finally got to the point of the matter, "I know what you people do to Muggles who know too much. Harry told me." Narrowing my eyes, I demanded, "If I comply to your 'conditions,' here are mine: First, I will remain friends with Harry for as long as it remains mutual. Second, I will get to _keep_ the memories of said friendship, and _everything_ affiliated with it—and that _means_ everything." And because I had the feeling this Dumbledore was slippery when it came to details, I specified, "As in _every_ conversation, _every_ time he came over to my house to watch the news, _every_ joke we laughed over..._and_ the dementor attack. Every minute of it."

He examined me critically from over his half-moon glasses until his stare made me feel uncomfortable, and when he finally spoke it was to question me in the softest of tones, "...When offered an opportunity to forget the most _horrifying_ of experiences—grown men have wept like children at the very prospect of it—you willingly choose to reject it. Why?"

I stared back, and answered, "Dementors have to survive just like the rest of us. I'm not scared of them anymore, Mr. Dumbledore." I paused thoughtfully. "But to answer your question, letting you take my memories away is a copout. The easy way. And just so you know, I never do _anything_ the easy way."

"I gathered." Dumbledore smiled.

frowning crossly at him, I stressed, "Not _remembering_ that it happened doesn't change the fact that it _did_ still happen. And in that sense, if I forget everything, it's the same as not being a part of the world again, oblivious to what goes on around me, unknowing, unfeeling..." I closed my eyes, the pain racking through me again, and I almost wished for the blissful numbness again...then I forcefully pushed it away and reopened my eyes determinedly. "No more...never again. I refuse to live like a fool and not see the world around me. _All_ of it." And at his sympathetic smile—it actually came off as somewhat patronizing—I insisted, "At least I want to see them coming next time. If I'm going to be _attacked_ by something, I'd like to know what I'm up against, thank you. Is that so much to ask?"

"Impossible," Helvetia denied immediately, "Ze Statute of Secrecy decrees zat only ze Muggle Prime Minister and ze Muggle family members of wvitches and wvizards are an exception to ze rules—"

"I accept your terms, Ms. Spencer." Dumbledore smiled serenely at me, cutting off whatever Helvetia had been about to say, and prompting her to gape openly at the old man. "And in return...you will testify as a witness at Harry's hearing on Thursday the twelfth of August," he instructed in the lapse of staggered silence that Helvetia remained speechless with confoundment.

"You know, in America, you can get away with murder as long as it's in self-defense and you've got a lawyer with some sense in their head…" I pointed out ominously, then questioned, "Don't you guys have some sort of...magical equivalent thingy?"

"We do." He nodded serenely, but explained soberly, "However, at this time, the sentiment at the ministry towards Harry and I is, unfortunately, very unfavorable for many reasons having to do with—"

"Politics?" I guessed.

"Indeed,"

"And they're not going to let him off the hook without a damn good fight, are they," I deduced.

"Right again, I'm afraid,"

"That's fucked up,"

"Spoken like a true poet," He smiled fondly.

I let out a long sigh and spoke with a lazy drawl to my tone, "Well, Mr. Dumbledore, you strike a hard bargain…" But then I stuck out my hand and decided, "But as long as I get what I want, you've got yourself a witness in your pocket."

As he beamed and shook my hand merrily though, Helvetia let out an outraged, "_Ausgeschlossen!_" and thundered, "Do you have any idea wvhat damage zis wvill cause? A Muggle in ze Ministry of—"

"Yes, Elve," he spoke patiently, calling her by an unfamiliar nickname, "I can assure you, I am vividly aware of the consequences—"

"Zen tell me!" It was her turn to cut him off, "For wvhat purpose do you indulge a _Muggle_ in her foolish whims, Albus?! It wvill only cause troubles for her! You know zis, and yet—"

"I'm a little sick and tired of magic people assuming that they know what's best for me," I interrupted darkly. "We've already seen how that's turned out so far." I glared at Dumbledore. "So what on earth gives you the right—"

"I am your _Healer_!" Helvetia suddenly rounded on me, furious. "As such, it is my _duty_ to look out for your wvell being from now, until you die—and I will do my best to defer zat fate for as long as it is within my abilities to do so." I stared at her, oddly touched by the prickly woman's concern. She had a funny way of showing it, but I felt like she was speaking from the heart. "You know not wvhat you are involving yourself in, Amy Spencer. Zere are forces at wvork here that are _not_ to be tampered with—especially by one such as yourself." She turned to Dumbledore and snarled at him viciously, "Though I have no idea what you are scheming with the Potter child, I _know_ you, Albus. Children are not _meant_ to be wveapons or disposable playthings like pieces in a game of Wvizard's Chess!" Her tone turned acidic as she gestured to me. "And now you plan on involving _zis_ one!" She spoke very quickly. "I may have no say in what you plan for the Potter boy, but on zis one, I wvill not budge. She is _my_ patient. I wvill not have her involved in a war she has no need to be part of—"

"You're talking about Voldemort?" I interrupted again, watching as Helvetia gave an odd sort of twitch at the name I'd so blatantly uttered, but I pushed on without stopping, "Harry said he's back. Is it true?"

At the long, staggering silence, I didn't need Dumbledore's confirmation to know the answer. "Yes. Unfortunately, that is correct."

Staring at both of them seriously from my sickbed, I spoke carefully, "...Then if what I've heard about him is true as well, this war _does_ involve me. Actually, it involves _all_ 'Muggles,' seeing as how Voldemort's victory will mean the enslavement and desolation of all mankind." I looked at Helvetia and tried to speak decently, "I appreciate the sentiment, I really do Healer Derwent. But if this guy wins, that means I'm dead as a doornail anyway, and if I'm not, then I'll probably _wish_ I was." Then I directed the next at Dumbledore, "Therefore, I'd like to do everything I can to prevent that. You say you like having connections, right? Strings you can pull? What if I told you I could get them for you? Give you another reason to keep your fingers out of my memories, wouldn't it?"

He raised both silvery brows appreciatively, "Indeed it would. What exactly did you have in mind, Ms. Spencer?"

I shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly, "My stepdad's got connections with several military contracting agencies, and I plan on writing for the papers. And forgive me if it sounds like I'm bragging, but I'm pretty damn good at it too. My ultimate goal is Editor in Chief, and I have no doubt in my mind that I'll get the job. So, give me a few years, and you'll have a paper in your pocket, just like the Ministry of Magic does. As for the military contacts, Harry said that Voldemort has an army. Why not get one of your own? Or at least the proper training for one. You guys can't all just rely on wands alone, can you? And from what Harry told me about this Voldemort guy's MO, he won't be expecting Muggle tactics. Seeing as he thinks the whole lot of us are filthy scum with cheese fry brains, I'd say it'd catch him with his pants down, don't you think?"

He seemed genuinely fascinated. "An intriguing proposition to say the least… I must admit, even I wouldn't have thought of using Muggle propaganda. And it just so happens that I have a very close friend in the Muggle Relations Office…"

"Harry's been obsessing over the Muggle papers all summer," I reported, coming to the sudden realization. "Most likely looking for hints of Voldemort, now that I think about it. I bet if other Wizards started to learn the truth, they'd look at the Muggle papers too, if only to compare and contrast. It'd have to be done delicately, what, with your whole Statute of Secrecy problem, but done _correctly_, with a little shove in the right direction here and there…"

"Intriguing…" Dumbledore said again with a certain sparkle in his eye.

"I'm not listening to this." Helvetia's voice fluttered as if she were about to faint, her hands flying to rest over her palpitating heart, shaking her head with disbelief, "I'm not."

"And as for military training, I assume you mean…" Dumbledore ignored her.

"Guerrilla warfare. Hand to hand combat. Knives—Harry says guns won't work—maybe something bigger, like Machetes…" I paused, sending Dumbledore a slightly embarrassed look, "I could probably convince my stepdad to impart these...skills upon me. I've always been a bit…" I paused again, averting my eyes, "..._paranoid_ that the world would end in a zombie apocalypse. I watch too many horror movies. I get nightmares. And then again, I have a strange, morbid fascination with anything that frightens me, so it's a bit of a vicious circle—" I cut myself off with a disturbed shake of my head, "_Anyway_, point is, if I work myself up about it too much, my step dad will get fed up, and start teaching me survival skills in order to assuage my fears of one day being eaten alive by a horde of rabid flesh eating corpses by giving me the means to avoid such a fate. And, given enough time, I may be able to impart said skills upon your subordinates..." I gave another shrug, slightly mortified at having divulged my deepest darkest fear. "Like my step dad always says…'If it's stupid and it works, then it isn't stupid…'"

As if reading my thoughts, Dumbledore remarked, "Well, your fears aren't entirely unfounded. Voldemort has been known to use Inferi in the past. These are essentially the same horror creatures that haunt your nightmares. My suggestion would be to arm yourself with fire—"

"Wait." I stared at him with sheer horror, a tremble in my voice. "...You mean to tell me they actually _exist_."

"Oh yes, Ms. Spencer." Dumbledore nodded gravely. "Along with many other beings and non-beings that still roam in the myths and legends of Muggles. I know that Voldemort has killed enough people to create an army of Inferi in particular..."

I could feel the color leaving my face. "You said...kill it with fire? That works?"

"Yes, but in masses...it may be quite difficult without a wand, I'm afraid," he told me solemnly.

I imagined myself trying to hold off a giant swarm of them with a lighter and some PAM, then moved to rest my head in my hands, finding them shaking, "...What in the name of sweet Jimi Hendrix have I gotten myself into?"

"Now you see." Helvetia spoke up quietly. "Zis is beyond you, Amy Spencer. Do not attempt to involve yourself any further than you need to be."

At that, I looked up slowly from my hands and stared at them both in turn. "Yes," I replied dismally, "Maybe it is," but then, after a pause, "...But suppose I do nothing. What then? What then, if Voldemort succeeds, and _I_ could've done something about it had I risked my life and done everything I could to help? Maybe I'm young, and foolish. Maybe I'm full of it, and egotistical. But what if? What if my help could be the one thing that turns the tide? Hell, I don't _know_ what the future may bring, but I do know one thing…" I clenched my fists tightly. "I won't just sit by and let this happen. I won't be the one to look back when we're all enslaved and wonder 'what if?' And if I fail, and die in the process, at least I won't live to see my family suffer. Not to mention what would happen to poor Harry—he said Voldemort's got some sort of blood vendetta against him—he's probably going to get strangled with his own _intestines_—but hey, maybe I'm being pessimistic. There's always my death will mean something, and we'll win. Strangely, I think I'd be okay with that." Then I suddenly jabbed my finger at Dumbledore. "But only if you have a statue made of me, or something. I'll be very put out if you don't."

There was silence for a moment, and then Dumbledore chuckled, shaking his head, "I don't think I've ever met a Muggle quite like you Ms. Spencer."

I tilted my head in question. "I'm not sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult."

"Rest assured, after that declaration, you have nothing but my respect." He beamed, then added curiously, "I can't help but wonder, had you been born a Witch, what house _you_ would have been sorted into at Hogwarts…"

I vaguely remembered Harry saying something about them, but shook my head. "Couldn't tell ya. They probably haven't invented one that could fit me in it. And that's why I'm not a Witch."

Dumbledore chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "A fair assessment."

I then directed my next at Helvetia, "But just because I'm not a Witch doesn't mean I'm impaired. I can make a difference. I'll prove it to you. Just give me the chance."

She sent me a long, dead look, then sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration, "Zis goes against everything I have ever been taught…" She then eyed me critically. "You sound so confident zat you wvill succeed."

"I _will_." I blinked at her. "After all, what option is there other than success? If we're not successful, we're all dead, and I'd really like to stay _not_-dead, thank you very much. Therefore, I will succeed. That's all there is to it."

She raked her fingers through her corn silk hair. "You, Amy Spencer...are the most _willful_ child I have ever treated."

"I'm not a child." I narrowed my eyes.

"As you like. But you are still my patient, and _I_ am still your Healer," she insisted, regaining her cool composure. "And as such, it is wvithin my power to keep you here until ze day of Mr. Potter's hearing. After your release, I wvill have you back for checkups each month until I can be certain your condition has been returned to an unharmful state..._and_," She glowered at Dumbledore, who smiled back serenely. "visitors are no longer wvelcome."

...And that settled that.

* * *

******(EDIT: LAST NAME 'SMITH' HAS BEEN CHANGED TO 'SPENCER' FOR ACCURACY PURPOSES)**

**Thanks so much for the reviews guys. **

**It really helps if you tell me how I'm doing.**

**I really hope I got Dumbledore right. I really hate it when people sort of turn him into the 'Oh, hey, sure, I'll help you out of the goodness of my heart' kind of guy. I mean, yeah, he's Dumbledore, but he's also got a war to plan. Wars are expensive.**

**And yes, Helvetia's accent is horrible. I really don't know what to do about it. Maybe just imply it in the narrative? Thoughts, anyone?**

**NEXT CHAPTER:**

_**FRIENDS OR FOES...?**_

**In which a certain asshole we all love may or may not be involved...**


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